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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


V^'-       GEORGE  ALEXANDER  TOUCHE 


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7 


LAYS 


OF 


ROMANCE  AND  CHIVALRY 


BY 


W.     STEWART     ROSS. 


LONDON: 

W.  STEWART  &  CO.,  THE  IIOLBORN  VIADUCT  STEPS,  E.G. 
EDINBURGH  :  J.  MENZIES  &  CO. 


Morrison,  and  Gibb,  Edinburgh, 
Printers  to  Her  Majesty's  Stationery  Office. 


CONTENTS. 


a 

PAGB 

Roman  Period — 

Caractacus  the  Briton,  .......           i 

Graeme, 

4 

Eric  Haaerfager, 

14 

Raid  of  the  Vikingr, 

20 

The  Minstrel  King, 

22 

Edith,    . 

25 

Hereward, 

26 

The  Ampulla,    . 

30 

Richard  Lion- Heart, 

34 

The  Ringlet  of  Lenore, 

37 

The  Red-Cross  Knight, 

41 

The  Pale  Bride, 

45 

The  Death  of  Wallace, 

46 

Death  of  Edward  the  First, 

.         4S 

Elinore, 

51 

The  Bride  of  Steel, 

54 

Never  more, 

•        56 

The  Choice  of  Sigismund, 

•        5S 

Glencoe, 

.        63 

Culloden, 

66 

Chivalry, 

70 

L'Envoi, 

. 

74 

LAYS  OF  ROMANCE  AND   CHIVALRY. 


CARACTACUS  THE  BRITON. 

Adown  the  Via  Sacra,i 

In  the  noonday's  golden  glow, 
Rolled  the  thunder  of  the  Triumph, 

Two  thousand  years  ago. 

And  through  the  crowded  Forum 

Passed  the  triumphal  car; 
And  o'er  the  shouting  thousands 

Waved  the  standards  of  the  war. 

Blazing  with  gold  and  green  with  palms, 

On  moved  the  mighty  show; — 
Above,  proud  Roman  eagles,^ 

Stout  Roman  hearts  below. 

Ho  !  Vict'ry's  crown  of  laurel ! 

Ho  !  Victor's  ruddy  wine  ! 
Ho  !  branches  from  the  terraces 

Of  woody  Aventine  !  ^ 

'  Via  Sacra,  the  '  Sacred  Way. '  The  Triumph,  a  grand  procession  in 
honour  of  a  victorious  Roman  general,  passed  along  the  Via  Sacra,  through 
the  Forum  or  market-place  (where  the  law  courts  also  were),  and  up  to  the 
Capitol,  where  a  white  bull  was  sacrificed  to  Jupiter. 

'^  The  eagle,  the  wolf,  the  horse,  and  the  boar  were  the  standards  of  the 
Roman  legion,  but  the  ea>^le  was  the  most  general. 

'  One  of  the  seven  hills  on  which  Rome  was  built. 

1 


916( 


2  Caractaciis  the  Briton. 

And  the  thunder  of  the  shouting 
Pealed  through  the  sultry  air, 

And  sword  and  spear  were  brandished 
By  right  arms  strong  and  bare ;  ^ — 

The  arms  that  hewed  out  glory 
Through  many  a  bloody  day, — - 

The  arms  that  bore  Rome's  eagle 
From  Ganges  to  the  Tay. 

*To  plant  that  Roman  eagle 
On  Cambrian  -  battle-field, 

Aid,  Mars  !  red  god  of  battle  ! 
Ostorius'  ^  sword  and  shield  ! 


*  Shout  for  the  great  Ostorius, 

Far  o'er  the  ocean  foam  1 
Shout  for  him,  yellow  Tiber ! 

Shout,  Seven  Hills  of  Rome  ! ' 

Still  is  the  triumph  moving, 

The  eagles  wave  in  air ; 
Flash  a  hundred  thousand  weapons, 

A  thousand  trumpets  blare- 
But,  toiling  to  Jove's  temple. 

With  weary  steps  and  slow, 
The  haggard  prisoners  totter, 

In  suffering  and  woe. 

1  In  the  ordinary  panoply  the  arms  of  the  soldiery  were  left  unprotected. 

^  Cambria,  the  ancient  name  for  Wales,  where  the  Britons  made  their  last 
and  most  desperate  stand. 

3  Ostorius  Scapula,  the  Roman  general  who  defeated  and  captured  Carac- 
tacus,  and  who  for  this  was  honoured  with  the  triumph  referred  to  in  the  poem 


Caractaais  the  Briton.  3 

Hair  matted,  and  eyes  streaming, 

They  march  on  four-and-four ;  ^ 
Their  wounds  are  raw  and  ghastly, 

And  stiff  with  dust  and  gore. 

Won  were  those  deep  wounds  bravely 

In  Britain's  far-off  isle, 
Stemming  the  Roman  legions 

In  Plynlimmon's  red  defile  I 

And  Rome,  with  all  her  valour, 

Toiled  till  the  set  of  sun. 
And  grappled  ankle-deep  in  blood, 

Ere  that  defile  was  won  ! 

Now  she  insults  the  fallen — 

Who  march  on  four-and-four, 
Chains  clanking  and  mien  haggard, 

Wounds  stiff  with  dust  and  gore. 

The  hindmost  of  the  captives, 

A  king  serene  and  high, 
Marches  erect  and  fearless, 

Wild  daring  in  his  eye  ! 

What  brow  like  his  to  wear  a  crown  I 

What  hand  to  wield  the  glaive  1 — 
Caractacus  the  Briton, 

The  bravest  of  the  brave ! 

Heed  not,  O  gallant  soldier  ! 

A  deathless  name  is  thine, 
When  power  has  left  Mount  Co^lius  ^ 

And  ruined  Aventine  ; — 

>  The  prisoners  taken  in  war,  along  with  the  spoils  of  captured  cities,  pre- 
ceded the  triumphal  car. 

-  Mount  Coelius,  another  of  the  seven  hills. 


Graeme. 

When  History  scarce  remembers 
The  grandeur  now  before  thee, 

She'll  blazon  on  her  brightest  page 
The  far-off  isle  that  bore  thee. 

And  when  the  world  recalleth 

Time's  misty  yesterday, 
She'll  offer  thee,  Caractacus, 

The  laurel  and  the  lay. 

Two  thousand  years  of  story 
Now  part  this  age  from  thine. 

And  many  a  deed  of  glory 

Has  graced  thy  land  and  mine ; 

Yet,  brilliant  in  the  muster 
Of  the  deathless  in  the  grave, 

Shines  Caractacus  the  Briton, 
The  bravest  of  the  brave  1 


GRAEME. 

Far  back  in  forgotten  ages, 
'Mong  the  misty  years  of  time, 

Was  enacted,  lords  and  ladies, 
This  the  subject  of  my  rhyme. 

Long  ago  when  fierce  Selgovae, 
Naked,  battled  with  the  gale, 

Lived  a  lovely  Druid  maiden 
In  the  wilds  of  Niddesdale. 

And  far,  far  was  her  father  famed 
Among  our  hero  sires  of  yore ; 


Graeme. 

A  braver  ne'er  war-chariot  manned, 
A  stronger  arm  ne'er  target  bore. 

And  ponderous  hung  his  iron  sword, 
Without  a  scabbard,  at  his  thigh  ; 

Flashed  in  the  might  of  manhood's  bloom 
The  azure  of  his  martial  eye. 

All  plaited  round  his  warrior  brow, 
His  auburn  hair  a  helmet  made. 

That  might  withstand  'mid  battle's  toil 
The  downward  swing  of  iron  blade. 


't> 


Yet  graceful  o'er  his  necklace  fell 
Luxuriant  tresses  wet  with  dew, 

That  aye,  as  sighed  the  morning  breeze, 
Light  o'er  his  powerful  shoulders  flew. 

His  necklace  hung  down  o'er  his  breast. 
Gleaming  with  shells  and  burning  gold ; 

And  hung  loose  o'er  his  manly  form 
His  deerskin  mantle's  graceful  fold. 

In  sooth  he  was  a  gallant  chief — 
The  Druid  minstrels  sang  his  fame ; 

There  was  not  grove  nor  fort  but  knew 
The  prowess  of  the  fearless  Graeme. 

Brightly  dawned  a  summer  morn 

O'er  yellow  wastes  of  whins  and  broom, 

O'er  hoary  cairns  and  lonely  moors, 
Empurj^led  with  the  heather  bloom. 

O'er  cromlechs  rocking  in  the  wind. 
On  distant  hill-sides  drear  and  grey, 

And  on  the  ocean-lcaguered  rocks, 
Fell  the  red  light  of  dawning  day. 


Gi'aeme. 

Jocund  rose  that  day  of  yore — 

The  painted  hunter  grasped  his  spear ; 

The  wild-wood  echoed  bay  and  shout, 
And  sprang  agile  the  hunted  deer. 

And  foremost  in  the  chase  was  Graeme, 
\Mio  wrought  his  foemen  such  annoy  ; 

Right  noble  seemed  that  warrior  proud — 
The  gallant  Graeme — the  Druid's  joy  ! 

See  at  his  heels  his  savage  horde, 

'Mong  morning's  mist  fantastic  curl'd  ; 

They're  bursting  through  the  trackless  wild. 
These  warriors  of  a  former  world. 

And  pressing  forward  in  the  van. 
Of  lovely  mien  and  deadly  aim, 

'Tis  she  upon  that  fiery  steed — 

The  dauiihter  of  the  fearless  Graeme. 

'Tis  she,  the  peerless  Druid  maid, 

Boadicea  not  more  bold. 
And  never  yet  the  summer  sun 

Lit  lovelier  locks  of  streaming  gold. 

A  rosary  of  rainbow  shells 

Around  her  beauteous  neck  was  hung ; 
A  mantle  fair  of  ermine  fur 

"Was  graceful  o'er  her  shoulder  flung. 

Her  eyes  were  of  the  violet's  hue, 
Her  lips  like  ripe  haws  on  the  thorn, 

Her  smile  was  like  the  earliest  flush 
That  tints  the  hills  at  early  morn. 

Oh,  she  was  fair,  in  life's  heyday, 
Riding  amid  her  father's  spears, 


Graeme, 

That  maiden  whose  young  heart's  been  dust 
For  far  above  a  thousand  years ! 

The  hunters  now  are  ranked  and  boune, 

The  priest  must  bless  them  ere  they  go ; 
They  one  and  all  on  Hesus  ^  call, 

And  kiss  the  sacred  mistletoe. 

They  then  through  Lochar's  forest  pressed, 
The  crashing  brushwood  made  them  way, 

And  high  o'erhead,  through  tangling  boughs, 
Streamed  in  the  radiance  of  the  day. 

Deep  in  the  waving  wild-woods  rang 

The  cooing  of  the  turtle-dove, 
Blent  with  the  awful  matin  hymn 

Ascending  from  the  Druid  grove. 

Like  angel  robes  from  heaven  flung, 
The  summer  clouds  above  them  roU'd ; 

Red  as  the  bloom  of  spring's  first  rose, 
Their  fringes  tipped  with  living  gold. 

An  antlered  herd  sprang  from  the  copse— 
The  painted  hunters  wild  pursue  ; 

A  savage  shout  the  welkin  rent, 
And  thick  and  fast  the  arrows  flew. 

And  bounding  west  with  reckless  pace, 
Pursuing  swift  the  antlered  game. 

Still  fearless  onward,  onward  rode. 

The  daughter  of  the  dauntless  Graeme. 


'  Ilesus  and  Bel  were  two  of  the  greater  Druid  gods. 


8  Graeme, 

'Twas  night.     The  hunters,  all  in  sleep, 
Rested  within  the  round  stockade  ; 

Dimly  the  camp-fires  smouldered  low 
And  lurid  in  the  midnight  shade. 

The  warders  shout  a  wild  alarm — 
The  Roman  eagle  streams  on  high  : 

O  gods  !  a  thousand  torches  flare, 
Red,  wildly  'gainst  the  midnight  sky. 

They  come  !  they  come  !  a  tortoise  ^  dense — 

The  arrows  fall  like  wintry  rain  ; 
A  splintered  rock  goes  thund'ring  down, 

Cleaving  a  crushed  and  bloody  lane. 

Yet  firm  and  grim  the  Romans  close, 

And,  still  unbroken,  struggle  still, 
'Mid  groans  of  death  and  savage  yells, 

To  gain  the  summit  of  the  hill. 

On  the  shield  roof,  with  fearful  clang, 
Huge  stones  and  fiery  bolts  are  hurled  ; 

Yet  steady  up  the  hill  they  press. 

The  far-famed  conquerors  of  the  world. 

The  hill  is  won  ;  but  closely  pent 

Round  the  earth  rampart  and  stockade, 

In  triple  lines  are  warriors  ranked, 

With  ponderous  axe  and  pointless  blade. 

^  On  advancing  to  attack  an  enemy,  the  Romans  held  their  shields  ovei 
their  heads,  the  one  shield  overlapping  the  other,  like  the  slates  upon  the  roof 
of  a  house.  This  shield  roof  was  called  a  testttdo  or  tortoise,  from  its  resem- 
blance to  the  overlapping  sections  of  shell  on  the  back  of  that  reptile.  The 
Britons  are  represented  as  endeavouring  to  break  this  advancing  roof  of 
shields  by  rolling  pieces  of  rock  down  the  hill  upon  it,  and  by  showers  of 
stones  and  darts,  and  live  coals  in  order  to  set  it  on  fire. 


Graeme.  9 

The  lines  are  gathered  to  the  push — 

They  reel — they  form— they  charge  again  \ 

They  fight  o'er  ramparts  of  their  dead, 
And  the  red  life-blood  pours  like  rain. 

High  rings  the  madd'ning  neigh  of  steeds, 
The  furious  clash  of  sword  and  spear — 

The  rattling  wheels  proclaim  his  course, 
The  wild,  woad-painted  charioteer.^ 

The  moon  gleams  like  a  silver  shield, 
High  up  on  heaven's  cloud-strewn  floor, 

Lighting  the  billowy  surge  of  arms. 

Breaking  on  red  Death's  ghastly  shore. 

Godlike  in  might,  of  giant  height, 

Seen  by  the  flaring  torch's  flame. 
Who's  he  far  in  the  Roman  ranks, 

Girdled  with  steel  ?     'Tis  fearless  Graeme ! 

Both  hands  are  on  his  awful  hilt. 

And  brands  and  torches  round  him  flare, 

Gleaming  on  his  uplifted  arms, 

And  streaming  folds  of  auburn  hair. 

Terrific  sweeps  his  red  claymore. 

Alone  amid  a  thousand  foes ; 
Aye  as  he  cleaves  the  gaps  of  death. 

The  living  billows  round  him  close. 

He's  down  !  O  gods,  he's  up  once  more  ! 

Crash  goes  the  steel  through  helm  and  brain, 

'  The  Britons  punctured  grotesque  and  frightful  figures  into  their  skins 
with  a  blue  vegetahle  pigment  called  woad.  This  was  in  order  to  make  them 
appear  more  terrible  in  battle. 


10  Graeme. 

Lorica^  gives  but  weak  defence, 
Hasta^  and  scutum^  fly  in  twain  1 

Stern,  fiercely  in  the  torch's  flare, 
Recking  and  red  from  head  to  heel, 

Still  does  that  fearless  heart  the  Graeme 
Rush  on  the  ridge  of  levelled  steel. 

'Tis  o'er — low  stoops  that  lofty  head, 
And  falls  for  aye  that  sword  of  flame; 

O  Liberty  !  that  mangled  form 
Is  all  now  of  the  mighty  Graeme ! 


And  where  is  she,  the  Druid  maid  ? 

Fainting  and  weary,  breasting  still 
The  ranks  of  steel  and  brazen  mail 

That  struggle  on  the  Wardlaw  Hill. 

Behold  the  Druid  maiden  fall 
Amid  the  conflict's  wildest  roar  ! 

Her  hand  still  grasps  the  broken  blade — 
With  her  long  tresses  shaded  o'er. 

Like  summer  flower  by  scythe  cut  down 
In  the  meadow's  scented  breath, 

Fell  the  sweet  rose  of  Niddesdale 
Under  the  scythe  of  death- 


Morn  sowed  the  world  with  purple  light, 
And  from  the  clouds,  serene  and  still, 

*  Lorxca,  a  coat  of  mail  or  brigandine.  "^  Hasta,  a  kind  of  spear  or  lance. 

3  Saititm,  a  shield  or  target. 


Graeme.  1 1 

Looked  sorrowing  down  on  wreck  and  death, 
And  fatal  Wardlaw's  tented  hill. 

A  Roman  legion  held  the  fort, 

Cold  slept  they  that  'gainst  mighty  Rome 
Dared  for  their  rights  to  wield  the  sword 

For  life,  for  liberty,  and  home. 

There  lay  the  Roman  in  his  mail, 

And  there  the  deer-skin  mantle  lay 
Blood-red,  where  to  the  fearless  heart 

The  Roman  steel  had  forced  its  way. 

And  grim  and  ghastly  death  was  there, 
On  brave  men  who  knew  how  to  die ; 

And  glazed  eyes  still  open  glared. 
As  if  for  vengeance,  to  the  sky. 

Ah,  many  a  Roman  soldier  looked 

W^ith  sorrow  on  the  Druid  maid. 
Resting  so  calmly  beautiful — 

Resting  upon  the  shivered  blade. 

The  mistletoe  upon  her  brow 

Waved  gently  in  the  morning's  breath, 

And  fresh  the  leaves,  all  dewy  green. 
Lay  on  the  pallid  brow  of  death. 

It  seemed  as  if  a  balmy  sleep 

Had  closed  the  blue  eyes  of  the  fair, 

The  breeze  upon  her  death-cold  cheek 
Played  with  the  ringlets  of  her  hair. 

Full  many  a  Roman  soldier  found 

Flis  comrade,  lost  for  aye  to  fame, 
Lining  the  awful  lane  of  death, 

The  sword-hewn  pathway  of  the  Graeme. 


1 2  Graeme. 

Upon  a  heap  of  dead  he  lay, 

His  war-cry  hushed  for  ever  now, 

A  hundred  spear-wounds  in  his  breast, 
A  wide,  red  gash  upon  his  brow. 

At  arm's  length  howled  in  his  death  grasp 
The  wolf,  that  came  ere  life  was  o'er 

To  tear  the  stalwart  warrior's  thews, 
Now  stiff  and  rigid  evermore. 

His  mangled  clansmen  lay  behind, 
Who  with  him  oft  had  breasted  death, 

And  with  him  there  had  cleft  their  way, 
Till  the  last  throb  of  life  and  breath- 

Ah,  well,  right  well  Agricola  knew, 
By  raid,  by  rapine,  steel,  and  flame, 

The  fearless  horde  that  knew  no  creed 
But  the  wild  slogan  of  the  Graeme  ! 


'Tis  midnight.     Doleful  is  the  wail 

Arising  from  the  temple  stones. 
In  murky  gloom  and  darkness  wrapt, 

Round  which  the  Lochar  forest  groans. 

Through  dusky  night  a  lurid  flame 
Bursts  with  a  thousand  forks  on  high ; 

Ah,  Rome  !  the  wicker  cage  is  filled,^ 
And  there  thy  tortured  sons  must  die. 

^  It  was  a  custom  with  the  Britons  to  force  their  prisoners  of  war  into  a 
huge  basket  of  wattles,  bearing  a  rough  resemblance  to  the  human  form, 
and  then  to  burn  together  the  basket  and  those  it  imprisoned. 


Giacinc.  1 3 

*  And  there  they  die,  e'en  let  them  die, 

In  agony,  far  from  Latium's  shore  ; 
Their  agony  matches  not  our  woe, 

For  oh,  the  gallant  Graeme's  no  more ! 

*  So  let  them  die,'  the  Druid  sang, 

'  The  roaring  flames  their  funeral  knell ; 
Their  torture's  grateful  to  the  eye 
Of  angry  Hesus,  and  of  Bel. 

*  Their  smoke  ascends  to  heaven — see 

The  venging  demons  'mid  the  gloom ; 
They  wave  their  shadowy  hands  in  wrath, 
And  beckon  Rome  unto  her  doom. 

*  But  oh,  the  dauntless  Graeme's  no  more, 

The  bravest  warrior  e'er  drew  breath. 
Or  e'er  unbarred  with  warrior  hand 
The  grim  and  fearful  door  of  death. 

*  And  oh,  the  Graeme  !  the  Graeme's  no  more, 

The  stalwart  Graeme  our  bards  adored ; 
Then  build,  build  high  his  warrior  cairn, 
And  lay  by  him  his  broken  sword. 

'  0  Albyn,  weep — weep  tears  of  blood ; 

Sons  you  shall  bear  of  might  and  fame, 
But  never,  never,  never  more 

A  warrior  like  the  gallant  Graeme  ! 

*  And  oh,  the  stalwart  Graeme's  no  more, 

A  braver  soldier  ne'er  drew  breath, 
Nor  e'er  unbolted  with  his  sword 
The  grim  and  awful  gate  of  death ! ' 


14  Eric  Haacrfagcr. 

ERIC  HAAERFAGER. 

A    LAY   OF    SAXON    ENGLAND. 

[A  few  of  tlie  specially  Runic  words  and  allusions  in  this  poem  are  not  here 
explained  by  footnotes.  In  regard  to  others,  the  readier  is  referred  to  the  notes 
to  'The  Raid  of  the  Vikingr,'  p.  20.] 

Boldly  sang  the  Saxon  gleemen 

This  fierce  lay  of  long  ago, 
■\Vhile  the  Saxons  yet  were  freemen, 

Long  ere  Harold's  overthrow.^ 

To  bear  off  to  his  stormy  voes  ^ 

England's  Fairest  of  the  Fair, 
Was  the  task  he  did  propose  : 
As  his  latest  sun  arose, 

This  was  bold  Haaerfager's  prayer  : — 

*0  Odin,  red  Odin,  thou  god  of  the  battle, 

Come  listen  to  me  'mong  the  ghosts  of  Valhalla  ! 

'Mong  the  mountains  of  dead  my  ancestors  bled, 

'Mid  the  groan  and  the  yell  and  the  shout  of  Braavalla  !' 

*  And  fierce  Sigard's  hair— ay,  his  long  hoary  hair — 
Fell,  to  wave  o'er  the  wilds  of  the  Nordland  no  more ; 

And  hosts  closed  their  eyes  on  the  earth  and  the  skies, 
'Fore  my  forefather,  bold  Harold  Ganger  of  yore  ! 

'  His  hand  all  imbrued  from  the  war  with  the  Swede, 
He  raised  his  right  arm  and  triumphantly  swore  : 

"  No  well-gallied  fiord  shall  e'er  see  my  sword. 
It  will  never  more  flash  on  the  Anglian  shore  ! 

iThe  overthrow  of  the  Saxons  under  Harold  II.  at  Hastings,  1066. 

-  Voes,  creeks  or  inlets  of  the  sea. 

3  Battle  of  Braavalla,  A.D.  740,  where  Harold  GokUooth,  the  Dane, 
defeated  Sigard  Ring,  king  of  Sweden.  Sigard,  old  and  blind,  fell  in  the 
engagement,  and  Harold  ruled  in  Scandinavia. 


Eric  Ilaaerfager.  1 5 

'  "  I'll  die  in  the  noon  of  my  glory  to-day  ; 

I'll  die  like  a  Dane  on  this  field  of  Braavalla ; 
To-night  my  red  fingers  shall  redden  the  skull 

That's  lifted  on  high  to  the  toast  in  Valhalla ! 

'  "  My  sun's  at  its  height,  shall  I  wait  the  decline  ?  " 
And  he  fell  on  his  sword,  calling  Odin  and  Thor : 

nis  spirit  forth  rushed  as  his  bosom's  blood  gushed, 
And  his  great  gallant  heart  was  still  evermore  1 

*  And,  O  Odin,  oft  his  descendant,  Haaerfager, 

Has  met  the  seaxe  of  the  Saxon  afar ; 
Kis  yellow  hair  wet  with  the  red  battle  sweat, 
In  the  autumn  of  Death — in  the  harvest  of  War  ! 

'  Then,  oh,  if  the  lives  he  has  laid  at  your  shrine. 
If  the  dints  on  the  casque  that  encircles  his  brow 

Have  e'er  you  delighted,  let  his  suit  be  not  slighted, 
But  grant  the  petition  he  brings  to  you  now  ! 

*  Rovv-ena  is  fair  as  the  flash  of  the  morn, 

When  Heimdal  ^  looks  dov/n  from  the  rim  of  the  day, 
']\Iong  the  dark,  groaning  pines  v/here  the  Norsemen  are  born, 
And  the  ocean  of  m'st,  slowly  melting  away. 

*  Her  brow  is  as  white  as  the  wastes  of  the  snow 

On  the  peaks  of  the  Kolen,  tremendous  and  high, 
V\'hen  the  breath  of  midnight  lifts  the  curtain  of  white, 
And  mingles  its  folds  with  the  stars  of  the  sky. 

1  Heimdal,  the  god  with  the  golden  teeth.  He  was  stationed  at  one  end 
of  the  bridge  of  Bifrost,  which  reached  from  earth  to  heaven.  There  he 
defended  the  bridge  against  the  giants.  He  was  the  gonfalonier  or  standard - 
hearer  of  the  gods.  His  hearing  was  such  that  he  heard  the  grass  growing  iri 
the  fields,  and  he  saw  for  a  hundred  leagues  either  by  night  or  day.  The 
sound  of  his  trumpet  might  be  heard  through  the  universe. 


\l6  Eric  Haacrfagcr. 

'  (h-eat  Odin,  then  help,  and  the  maid  shall  be  mhie, 
Though  I   wade  to  her  bovver  to  the  sword-belt  in  gore ; 

Down  the  arch  of  Bifrost,^  come,  Odin  the  Mighty, 
As  I  gird  on  my  sword  on  the  Anglian  shore.' 

At  eve  before  TJdolf's  strong  ramparts  they  stood, 
And  the  warder  replied  to  a  blast  at  the  gate  : 

'Let  Count  Beowulf  know  that  one  waits  him  below, 
A  peer  to  the  bravest  and  best  in  your  state  1 ' 

Then  high  from  the  rampart  Count  Beowulf  cried : 
'  Who  art  thou,  O  warrior,  that  waits  me  below  ? 

A  proud  Scottish  thane  ?     Art  thou  Norseman  or  Dane?- 
Sir  knight,  answer  quickly,  if  friend  or  if  foe  ? ' 

'  Beowulf,  I  have  come  from  a  far  foreign  land ; 

Red  gold,  gallant  hearts,  and  strong  castles  are  mine  : 
I've  crossed  land  and  water  for  the  fair  daughter, 

Bretwalda,  for  that  young  Rowena  of  thine. 

*  I'll  love  her  as  never  a  maiden  was  loved — 

By  our  god,  Beowulf,  what  makes  you  thus  start  ? 
I'll  defend  her,  her  lord,  with  a  warrior's  sword, 
And  love  with  the  might  of  a  warrior's  heart ! ' 

'  Be  yours,  courteous  stranger  ?     This  never  can  be  ; 

She's  espoused  to  her  kinsman,  this  daughter  of  mine : 
By  all  that  is  dear,  by  Hengist's  red  spear. 

The  blue-eyed  Rowena  can  never  be  thine  1 ' 

*  Bethink  you,  Bretwalda ;  disguised  as  a  ba.rd, 

At  Yule  in  last  year  I  harped  in  your  hall, 
And  my  heart  thrilled  on  fire  as  my  hand  struck  the  lyre, 
And  I  gazed  on  the  maid  from  a  niche  in  the  wall 

*  Udolf,  ever  since,  and  wherever  I've  fought, 

She's  haunted  me  ever,  wherever  I've  strayed, 
1  See  preceding  note. 


Eric  Haaerfager.  17 

Liki  the  morning  sunbeam — like  a  joy  in  a  dream, 
The  beautiful  form  of  the  young  Saxon  maid. 

And  I  thought,  Beowulf,  that  a  high  heart  like  thine 
Its  countenance,  favour,  and  gift  ever  gave 
To  the  best  arm  and  sword,  and  deemed  the  best  lord 
Was  he  clasped  his  love  to  the  breast  of  the  brave.' 

'You  were  right,  noble  stranger,'  young  Cerda  replied 
('Twas  he  was  espoused  to  Rowena  the  Fair) ; 

'  And  he  may  bear  the  prize,  by  Rowena's  bright  eyes, 
Who's  braver  than  Cerda  to  do  and  to  dare ! 

•There  you  have  your  broadsword,  and  here  I  have  mine, 
Come,  we'll  throw  the  dice  for  a  bride  or  a  grave ; 

And  let  him  be  lord  who  owns  the  best  sword, 
And  let  his  love  rest  on  the  breast  ot  the  brave.' 

'  By  the  beauty  of  Balder,  the  hammer  of  Thor,i 

I'll  meet  you  anon,  or  lay  me  with  Vala,^ 
Ay,  and  close,  double-barred,  spite  of  all  I  have  warred, 

Against  me  for  ever  the  gate  of  Valhalla. 

1  The  hammer  of  Thor  was  kept  always  red-hot,  and  was  of  such  a  weight 
that  it  required  ten  men  to  carry  it  on  a  hurdle.  It  was  once  stolen  by  the 
giants  while  Thor  was  asleep,  and  buried  eight  miles  deep  in  Giantland.  The 
gods,  anxious  for  the  recovery  of  the  hammer,  resorted  to  the  following  arti- 
fice. They  negotiated  concerning  a  marriage  of  Freya,  their  goddess  of  love, 
with  the  chief  of  the  giants.  It  was  stipulated  that  the  hammer  should  be 
produced  at  the  marriage.  Thor  dressed  himself  like  and  personated  Freya  ; 
but  the  giants  expressed  their  astonishment  at  the  voracious  appetite  of  the 
bride,  when  she  did  more  than  justice  to  the  viands  by  eating  eight  salmon  and 
an  entire  ox.  According  to  contract,  the  hammer  was  produced,  when  the 
bride  (Thor)  seized  it  with  a  savage  shout  of  triumph,  and  dealt  with  it  an 
indiscriminate  carnage  among  the  deluded  giants. 

"  Vala,  the  writer  of  the  Voluspa,  the  most  ancient  of  the  sacred  writings  of 
the  Scandinavians.     The  body  of  Vala  lay  near  the  eastern  gate  of  Nifiheim  : 
'  Hard  by  the  eastern  gate  of  hell. 
In  ancient  times  great  Vala  fell.'—IlERBEKTS  Ildi^a. 


1 8  Eric  Haaerfager. 

'And  know,  haughty  Saxon,  base  keeper  of  swinc,^ 
My  falchion  is  worthy  to  find  you  a  grave  ; 

Let  your  cheek  blanch  with  fear — hear,  tremble  to  hear- 
I'm  Eric  Haaerfager — Haaerfager  the  Brave  !' 

'  Haaerfaorer  the  Brave  !     Red  demon-berserker  '.^ 
By  the  tomb  where  King  Jesus  in  victory  lay, 

]\Ieet  this  keeper  of  swine  \  for  on  your  eyes  or  mine 
This  even  the  sunlight  is  setting  for  aye !' 

'  Son  of  the  land  of  the  jarl  and  the  kraken,^ 
Red  glory  is  dearer  than  being  and  breath ; 

Let  the  Scaldic  harp  ring  of  my  falchion's  swing 
To  the  spell-word  of  Eric,  "  Rovvena  or  Death 


"> 


Terrific  the  blows  on  the  habergeon  fall, 

The  plumes  are  shorn  off  and  the  war-chargers  bound ; 
But  Cerda's  steed  reels,  his  foe  on  him  wheels. 

The  horse  of  the  Saxon  is  borne  to  the  ground. 

But  Cerda  arises  and  Eric  dismounts ; 

They  struggle,  they  grapple  in  rage  and  despair ; 
Stern,  wild  they  strike  on — Eric's  helmet  is  gone, 

And  ruddy  drops  drip  from  his  long  yellow  hair. 

And  the  blood  and  the  foam  through  the  joints  of  their  mail 
Render  slippery  the  turf  and  the  hilt  of  the  glave  ; 

God  !     How  long  shall  it  last,  ere  the  die  may  be  cast — 
And  whose  is  Rowena  ?  and  whose  is  the  grave  ? 

The  even  hangs  dim  on  the  grapple  of  Death, 

On  the  fire-sparks  that  fly  from  the  blade  and  the  mail ; 

1  Ths  keeping  of  swine  was  one  of  the  principal  national  indusiries  of  fie 

Saxons. 

^  The  berserkers  fought  without  armour  in  a  state  of  semi-nudity,  and  with 

Ihe  most  reckless  bravery. 

2  Kraken,  a  huge  imaginary  sea  monster  seen  off  the  shores  of  Scandinavia. 


Eric  Haacrfagcr.  19 

Like  a  ghost  from  a  shroud,  the  moon  through  a  cloud 
Shines  weird  on  the  deep  crimsoned  grass  of  the  vale. 

Ho  !  shout  for  young  Cerda,  for  Cerda  the  Saxon, 
And  honour,  old  England,  his  heart  and  his  hand, 

The  darling  of  freemen,  the  theme  of  the  gleemen, 
The  glory  of  Deira,^  the  pride  of  the  land  ! 

Hurrah  !  it  is  over,  the  Norseman  is  down — 

His  spirit  now  howls  on  the  borean  shore ; 
Ho  !  carry  the  tidings  to  hamlet  and  town. 

That  the  hard-striking  Eric  will  strike  nevermore ! 

Count  Beowulf's  vassals  have  taken  his  Norse, 

And  stung  them  with  snakes  in  the  dank  dungeon  gloom, ^ 

Then,  at  dead  of  the  night,  by  the  torches'  red  light. 
Laid  their  black  swollen  corses  at  rest  in  the  tomb. 

Three  days  and  three  nights  the  head  of  Haaerfager 
In  triumph,  impaled  on  the  point  of  his  sword, 

The  young  Cerda  bore  till  he  reached  the  wild  shore 
Where  the  Norsemen  lay  waiting  for  Eric  their  lord. 

'Twas  night :  he  beheld  o'er  a  beethng  cliff 
The  horde  of  berserkers,  their  fires  all  aglow ; 

He  hurled  down  the  head,  all  mangled  and  red, 
Down  to  the  camp  of  the  corsairs  below. 

Down  hurled  the  head  o'er  the  brow  of  the  cliff, 

It  crashed  through  the  night-shade  and  thyme  as  it  fell, 

And  the  tangled  briers  tear  the  long  matted  hair : 
Hark  1  shrieks  rise  as  if  from  the  torment  of  hell. 

^  Deira,  one  of  the  Snxon  kingdoms  into  which  England  was  divided. 

*This  instance  of  revolting  cruehy  to  a  vanquibhed  enemy  is  nc^t  without 
precedent,  and  only  refers  to  a  species  of  torture  literally  resorted  to  in  these 
barbarous  times.  Regnar  Lodbrok,  son  of  Sigard  Ring,  being  seized  and 
imprisoned  by  Ella,  king  of  Sussex,  shouted  his  war-cry  and  chanted  martial 
sagas  while  snakes  were  slinging  him  to  death  in  the  dungeon. 


20  Raid  of  the  Vikiiigr, 


'  Haaerfagcr's  proud  head  from  the  stars  of  the  heaven  I 
Great  Thor,  it  is  Eric — broad  brow  and  wild  eye  ! 

We'll  buy  not  a  wind^ — leave  this  curst  shore  behind — 
We  cannot  the  arm  of  the  demons  defy  ! ' 

Precipitate  fled  to  their  galleys  the  Norse, 

A  league  and  a  half  off,  a-riding  the  wave, 
Till  corses  threescore,  'mid  the  wreck  on  the  shore, 

Next  morn  lay  the  heroes  of  Eric  the  Brave  ! 

Ho  !  shout  for  young  Cerda,  for  Cerda  the  Saxon, 
And  honour,  old  England,  his  heart  and  his  hand — 

I'he  darling  of  freemen,  the  theme  of  the  gleemen, 
The  glory  of  Deira,  the  pride  of  the  land  1 

RAID  OF  THE  VHaNGR. 

[Odin  or  Woden  was  the  god  ot  war — the  chief  god  among  the  Scandi- 
navians. We  still  have  his  name  in  IVediwsday  ( =  IVodcii's  day),  and  in 
Wednesbiirgh  (  =  lVoden\  burgh  or  iorvn).  The  Norsemen  despised  the 
Christians,  who,  they  said,  worshipped  a  white  Chi-ist,  full  of  pity  and  com- 
passion and  long-suffering,  while  they  exulted  in  their  homage  to  Odin,  who 
delighted  in  blood  and  rapine  and  slaughter. — The  Vikingr  were  so  called 
from  vik,  a  creek.  They  lay  in  these  creeks  in  their  long  war-boats,  hence 
their  name.  (The  word  has  no  relation  to  king.)  Vihitzgr  is  the  plural,  the 
oldest  form  of  which  plural  was  in  rit.  We  still  find  this  form  in  hcroniy, 
falconry,  eyry,  and  other  words.] 

The  Raven,  the  Raven  is  dark  on  the  gale 

'Ihat  wrathfuUy  roars  through  the  cordage  and  sail ; 

At  the  black  dragon-prow  ^  the  ocean  is  dashing. 

On  the  storm-battered  deck  shields  and  cymbals  are  clashing ; 

1  The  buying  and  selling  of  winds  to  effect  prosperous  voyages  was  a  regular 
commercial  transaction  among  the  old  'sea-kings,' who  seldom  ventured  upon 
any  maritime  enterprise  of  importance  without  purchasing  a  prosperous  wind. 
The  chief  vendors  were  old  women  accredited  with  supernatural  influence, 
and  occupying  something  like  the  position  occupied  by  witches  in  mediaeval 
Christendom. 

-  The  Norse  galleys  were  built  in  the  form  of  a  dragon,  the  head  projecting 
at  the  prow,  and  the  tail  raised  aloft  at  the  stern. 


Raid  uj  tJtc  Vikingr.  21 

And  '  Hurrah  and  hurrah  !'  shout  the  sons  of  the  main, 
And  swells  the  broad  chest  of  the  steel-shirted  Dane  ; 
And  the  roar  of  the  chant  drowns  the  roar  of  the  sea — 
'  \Var-hammer,  war-axe,  and  red  Odin  for  me  ! ' 


Their  axes  are  swinging,  their  brass  shields  are  ringing; 
They  quaff  horns  of  mead,  and  they  stretch  to  the  oar, 
While  their  sagas  ^  keep  time  in  terrible  chime 
To  the  whirls  of  the  ocean  that  boil  evermore  ; 
And  Hilda  the  dear  one,  and  Brenda  the  fair, 
Named  in  sagas  of  love  or  of  terrible  glee, 
]\Iix  again  and  again  with  the  awful  refrain, 
'  The  ocean,  my  galley,  and  Odin  for  me  1 ' 

A  heap  of  red  cinders,  bespattered  with  blood, 
Marks  where  the  thane's  castle  rose  sternly  at  morn  ; 
And  dashed  is  the  rood  from  the  height  where  it  stood, 
On  the  loftiest  tower  of  the  Abbey  of  Thorn.^ 
On  Gurth's  ruined  grange  the  barn  is  on  fire. 
The  barley's  ablaze  on  the  upland  and  lea ; 
Louder,  louder  the  song  peals  wrathful  and  strong,— 
'  No  white  Christ,  but  Odin,  red  Odin  for  me  ! ' 


And  the  Raven  and  Horse  ^  are  met  in  the  dell, 
With  spiked  club  and  axe-swing,  with  groan  and  with  yell. 
The  wolf  and  the  crow — they  wait  for  the  dead, 
Where  the  flowers  of  the  mead  bloom  in  one  horrid  red ; 

1  Sagas,  the  songs  or  ballads  of  the  Scandinavians,  a  people  passionately 
fond  of  warlike  minstrelsy. 

"^  Where  Westminster  Abbey  stands  was  formerly  a  small  island,  formed 
by  a  curve  of  the  Thames,  known  as  the  Isle  of  Thorn.  Before  it  was  occu- 
pied by  a  Christian  church,  it  was  the  site  of  a  Roman  temple  to  Apollo. 

3  The  raven  was  the  insignia  on  the  standard  ot  the  Norseman,  the  -Jihite 
horse  on  that  of  the  Saxon. 


22  The  Minstrel  Ki/i<r. 


o>" 


And  the  lays  of  the  scalds  ^  peal  awful  and  high, 
And  the  valkyry  ^  ring  of  the  Norse  battle-cry, 
'  Ninheim,^  frigid  hell  for  the  Dane  that  will  flee  !— 
No  Christ  but  the  Nordland's  red  Odin  for  me !' 

Ah  !  redder  now  flushes  the  wild  rose's  bud, 
And  the  eye  of  the  daisy  is  blinded  in  blood. 
Now  England,  prepare  for  raid,  rapine,  and  lust. 
For  your  gallant  White  Horse  lies  low  in  the  dust ! 
Victorious  the  jarl  sings  of  Balder  "*  and  Thor,^ 
And  the  souls  of  the  brave  that  return  never  more  : 
'  Ho,  yell  of  the  battle  and  roar  of  the  sea, — 
War-hammer,  wMr-axe,  and  red  Odin  for  me  !' 


THE  MINSTREL  KING. 

It  was  inside  the  savage  camp 

Of  jarls  of  field  and  flood. 
Whose  ruthless  blades  had  freely  drank, 

And  deep,  of  Saxon  blood  : 

^  The  Scalds  were  the  poets  or  bards  of  the  Norsemen. 

^  The  ValkyriiS  wtxQ  the  goddesses  of  slaughter,  who,  before  an  engage- 
ment, selected  those  who  should  be  slain.  They  conducted  the  souls  of  the 
fallen  to  Valhalla,  and  were  the  cup-bearers  of  the  gods. 

^  Nijlheim,  the  Scandinavian  hell,  not  of  fiery  torment,  but  consisting  of 
nine  concentric  circles  of  ice,  the  cold  increasing  and  intensifying  in  the 
direction  of  the  innermost  circle. 

^  Balder,  a  son  of  Odin.  On  the  columns  of  his  palace  were  engraven 
rhymes  supposed  to  have  power  to  reanimate  the  dead.  He  was  shot  dead 
by  an  arrow  of  mistletoe,  discharged  by  his  blind  brother  Hoder. 

*  Thor  was  the  eldest  and  bravest  of  the  sons  of  Odin  and  Freya.  Wonder- 
ful feats  are  attributed  to  him,  of  which  the  following  may. serve  as  a  speci- 
men : — The  giants  having  challenged  Thor  to  drink  out  of  their  great  horn, 
lie  felt  piqued  at  being  able  to  drain  it  only  to  the  depth  of  a  few  feet.  The 
giants,  however,  expressed  their  amazement  at  his  prowess,  for  they  confessed 
to  having  taken  the  bottom  out  of  the  horn,  and  to  having  submerged  the 
bottomless  end  ir  Uio  sea.  So  Thor  had  drunk  tlie  entire  ocean  £])al!ov\-er 
by  seveial  feel  1 


The  Minstrel  Kiiis^.  2  \ 


'<:> 


King  Guthrum  sat  upon  his  throne, 

As  neared  the  day's  decline, 
And  '  Let  us  quaff,'  the  monarch  cried, 

'  The  victor's  blood-red  wine ; 
We  are  masters  of  the  island. 

From  east  to  western  shore, 
And  the  Pale  Horse  ^  of  the  Saxon 

Is  down  for  evermore  ! 

'The  plains  have  now  been  soaked  and  wet 

With  slaughter's  crimson  rain, 
And  over  ev'ry  fortress  waves 

The  Raven  -  of  the  Dane  : 
Come,  fill  the  goblet  brimming  high^ 

We'll  drink  from  skulls  ere  long ;  ^ 
Eut  while  we  drain  the  flowing  bowl, 

Come,  soul  of  martial  song  ; 
Where  is  the  Minstrel?     Bring  him  forth, 

To  hear  him  I  am  fain ; 
And  bid  him  sing,  in  martial  strain, 

The  glory  of  the  Dane  ! 

*  And  bid  him  sing  of  Hilda's  charms, 

Of  Dagmar's  locks  of  gold. 
Of  galleys  on  the  dashing  sea, 

Of  glorious  deeds  of  old  ; 
Of  Valkyries  ^  that  tell  the  dead 

Upon  the  battle  morn, 


'  Tlie  Pale  Horse  was  the  insignia  upon  the  Saxon  standard. 

^  The  Raven  was  the  insignia  upon  the  Danish  standard. 

^  One  of  the  delights  of  the  Scandinavian  heaven  was  for  the  blessed  to 
rlrink  blood  out  of  the  skulls  of  those  whom  they  had  slain  in  battle  upon 
tarth. 

^  Valkyries,  the  goddesses  of  slaughter,  who  before  the  armies  engaged  in 
battle  marked  out  those  who  were  doomed  to  fall.      ViJc  note  on  previous  page. 


24  The  Minstrel  King, 

And  of  the  flaming  Christian  church 

Upon  the  Isle  of  Thorn  ;  ^ 
How  the  faith  of  peaceful  Jesus 

Is  uprooted  evermore, 
And  the  flag  of  mighty  Odin 

Now  waves  from  shore  to  shore.' 

In  Alfred  strode, — the  Saxon  king, — 

Arrayed  in  minstrel  guise, 
Eut  round  the  hostile  camp  there  ranged 

His  dark  and  piercing  eyes  ; 
He  ev'ry  point  of  weakness  scanned. 

Where  Saxon  force  might  gain, 
By  main  and  might,  in  desperate  fight, 

A  victory  o'er  the  Dane  ; 
But  on  he  sang  of  heroes  dead. 

And  widows  left  forlorn, — 
And  well  the  Minstrel  King  foresaw 

A  wild  and  awful  morn. 

His  lay  portrayed  the  Danish  axe 

In  horrid  circle  wheel, 
The  clanking,  clashing  miles  on  miles 

Of  rasping,  dripping  steel; 
The  Raven  up,  the  White  Horse  down, 

The  grass  all  slippery  red, 
And  helm  and  cuish,  blade  and  spur, 

Commingled  with  the  dead ; 
And  laurels  and  Valhalla  for 

The  never-dying  brave. 
Who  passed  to  Thor  and  Odin 

Through  the  portal  of  the  grave  ! 

The  stars  before  the  morning  rise 
Were  gleaming  sharp  and  clear, 

'  Yi'cstminster  Abbey  originally  stood  on  the  Isle  of  Thom, 


Edith.  25 


The  Danish  camp-lights  dimly  fell 

On  shield,  and  axe,  and  spear : 
The  Minstrel  was  a  warrior  now, 

And  thousands  fenced  him  round, 
Right  cautious  in  the  dark  they  crept 

Along  the  battle  ground  ; 
Then  pealed  a  shout  of  thunder  power-- 

The  land  is  free  again  ! 
And  the  Pale  Horse  has  triumphed  o'er 

The  Raven  of  the  Dane! 


EDITH. 

[Ancient  chronicles  record  that  the  body  of  King  Harold,  as  it  lay  on  the 
field  of  Hastings,  was  so  defaced  with  wounds  that  it  could  not  be  identified, 
till  at  length  it  was  recognised  by  Edith  (of  the  Swan  Neck),  a  young  lady 
of  the  king's  household.] 

Bretwalda,  noble  Harold  !  death's  dark  red  roses  blow 
O'er  the  winter  plain  of  Senlac — the  mighty  lying  low. 
Bretwalda,  Edith  seeks  you — Edith  you  loved  of  yore, 
The  gold  spangles  of  her  slippers  incarnadine  with  gore  ! 

Alas,  O  race  of  Hengist !  and  alas  !  its  evil  star, 

In  ruin  set,  shall  blaze  no  more  over  the  field  of  war ! 

O  Harold  I  wild  and  glorious  has  thy  life's  course  been  driven 

From  hence  to  meet  Hardraga  on  the  golden  floor  of  heaven  ! 

For  but  the  brave  may  meet  thee,  wherever  thou  art  now  : 
No  earthly  crown  was  grand  enough  for  thy  broad  kingly  brow ; 
And  no  steel  blade  was  true  enough  to  grace  thy  warrior  thigh ; 
No  paladin  was  worthy  for  thee  to  dare  and  die. 

And  but  the  fair  may  meet  thee,  wherever  thou  may'st  be  : 
Alas  !  earth's  best  and  fairest  were  all  unworthy  thee ; 
And  ne'er  shall  England's  maidens  find  in  all  the  conquering  race 
The  beauty  even  death  has  left  upon  thy  manly  face  1 


26  lie  reward. 

I  kiss  thee,  son  of  Godwin  ;  'tis  the  last  for  evermore, — 
Forget  not  Saxon  Edith  upon  the  eternal  shore  ; 
When  all  the  harps  of  God  are  struck  in  heaven  to  welcome  thee, 
My  Harold — Saxon  Harold— oh,  then  remember  me  ! 

Think  on  the  hush  of  summer  eve,  on  the  earth  so  far  away. 
When  gleamed  through  England's  leafy  oaks  the  sheen  of  dying 

day 
On  Harold  and  on  Edith,  in  young  life's  budding  glow, 
Ere  darkened  merry  England  this  night  of  death  and  woe ! 

Eo,  the  midnight  clouds  are  scattered  by  wild  October's  breath, 
And  the  Star  of  Love  looks  down  on  the  stricken  field  of  death, 
As  though  the  might  of  Meekness  would  the  sword  of  Hate  defy, — 
A  glory  burning  on  the  cope  of  the  everlasting  sky. 

Ah  !  the  hate  of  Norman  William  can  never  reach  you  there  ; 
But  in  the  holy  fields  of  heaven  may  Saxon  Edith's  prayer, 
W'ith  memories  of  dear  England,  the  land  that  gave  you  birth, 
Sweet  whispers  of  the  sunshine  and  the  green  leaves  of  the  earth. 


There  are  meanings  from  the  slaughter-heaps  and  voices  in  the 

air — 
A  death-cold  hand  is  lying  'mong  the  tangles  of  ray  hair. 
Young  Harold  !  England's  hero-king !  thine  is  the  soldier's  grave, 
And  the  immortal  name  that  marks  the  manhood  of  the  brave  ! 


HEREWARD. 

[Herewaid  was  the  last  Englishman  ('Saxon')  of  note  who  made  any 
stand  against  the  power  of  William  the  Conqueror  after  the  battle  of  Hastings. 
He  was  the  son  of  Leofric,  Lord  of  Brmi,  in  East  Anglia.  While  yet  a 
mere  boy,  he  gave  evidence  of  determined  bravery  and  great  physical 
strength  ;  but  his  will  was  uncurbed,  and  his  love  of  chivalric  adventure 
far  exceeded  the  bounds  of  discretion,  and  occasionally  bade  defiance  to  the 


Hercward.  27 

laws  of  the  realm.  By  the  time  he  grew  up  to  manhood,  his  restless 
spirit  and  terrible  arm,  highly  celebrated  even  in  an  age  of  physical 
prowess  and  daring,  had  involved  his  father  in  such  difficulties  and  en- 
tanglements that  he  was  constrained  to  request  Edward  the  Confessor  to 
pronounce  a  sentence  of  outlawry  against  his  ungovernable  son,  Hereward, 
Thus  exiled,  after  several  adventures  in  several  lands,  Hereward  passed 
over  into  Flanders,  and  plunged  into  the  war  raging  in  that  country. 

After  the  Conquest  he  returned  to  England.     He  found  his  father  dead, 
and  the  castle  of  Brun   occupied   by  a  Norman   knight,  named  Taillebois.' 
Collecting  a  few  of  his  old  retainers  who   had  escaped  slaughter,  this  des- 
perate son  of  the  sword  attempted  to  wrest  Brun  Castle  by  storm  from  the 
hated  Norman.       He  was  repulsed,  and   the   Norman  troops  assembled  in 
such  force  round   the   point  of  attack  that  the   brave   Englishman  felt  com- 
pelled to   retreat  from  before  the  towers  of  his  ancestors.     Like  Alfred,  he 
sought   a  retreat    in    the  fens   of  Ely,  where,    in  the  middle  of  a  quaking 
and  all  but  impassable  bog,  he  established  what  was  called  the  '  Camp  of 
Refuge,'  a  wooden  structure  to  which   a  number   of  hunted  and  outlawed 
Englishmen  followed  him.     From  the  Camp  of  Refuge  as  a  centre,  Hereward 
kept  up  an  irregular  but  harassing  warfare  upon  the  neighbouring  districts. 
So  unprecedented  and  reckless  was  the  nature  of  his  incursions,  that  he  became 
an  object  of  apprehension  even  to  the  stern  and  resolute  Conqueror  himself, 
who  well  knew  that  the  English  people  were  vanquished  but  not  subdued, 
and  that  it  only  required  the  fitting  opportunity  and  the  presence  of  a  leader 
like  Hereward  to   raise  insurrections  which   might  imperil  even  his  crown. 
Accordingly,  William  in  person  visited  the  Ely  fen.     His  practised  eye  at 
once  took  in  the  whole   situation.     He  ordered   that  a  solid  causeway,  two 
miles  in  length,  should  be  built  across   the  swamps  right  into  the  Camp  of 
Refuge.     This  was  set  about,  but  it  proved  a  task  of  no  ordinary  difficulty. 
Hereward  and  his   followers   fell  upon   the  workmen  and  the  soldiers  who 
supported  them,  till  relay  after  relay  had  to  be  sent  to  take  the  place  of  the 
slaughtered,  and  carry  forward  the  fatal  causeway.     Soldiers  and  workmen 
alike  became  impressed  with  the  idea  that,  from  the  resistless  strength  of  his 
arm,  Hereward  was  more  than  a  mere  mortal,  and  had  entered  into  alliance 
with  Satan,  to  whom,  and  not  to  Hereward  himself,  the  feats  of  strength  and 
bravery  were  attributed.     Accordingly,  to  counteract  and  to  foil  this  power  of 
the  Evil  One,  a  wooden  tower,  containing  a  witch,  was  pushed  forward  to 
the  extremity  of  the  causeway.     The   soldiers  deemed  themselves  safe  under 
her  protection,  and  the  poor   old  woman  brandished   her  withered  arms  and 
shrieked   her  incantations.     Laughing  her   to   scorn,   Hereward   again  fell, 


1  This  word  now  appears  in  English  as  Talhoys.  It  was  the  Norman- 
French  for  wcod-rtitlcr  (from  tailicr,  to  cut).  So  also  taillcfer,  a  sword- 
sniith,  which  has  become  our  word  Tdfer. 


28  Hereward. 

sword  in  hand,  upon  the  Normans ;  and  having  set  fire  to  the  harvest  of 
tall  and  dry  withered  reeds,  the  wretched  woman  was  burnt  to  death.  Many 
others,  their  clothes  having  caught  fire,  perished  as  they  ran  about  madly  in 
the  blinding  smoke  and  quaking  fen. 

At  length,  however,  as  the  old  chroniclers  relate,  the  monks  of  Ely  led  the 
Normans  by  stealth  into  the  Camp  of  Refuge  by  a  way  known  only  to  Here- 
ward and  his  friends.  The  heroic  Englishman,  thus  betrayed,  offered,  as 
was  his  wont,  a  gallant  resistance  ;  but  at  length,  perceiving  further  opposition 
to  be  useless,  he  cut  his  way  through  the  ranks  of  his  enemies  and  effected 
his  escape.  What  was  his  ultimate  fate  is  doubtful ;  but  it  is  on  record  that 
his  death  was  in  keeping  with  his  life, — that,  taken  by  surprise  and  at  dis- 
advantage by  twenty  Norman  knights,  unsupported  and  alone,  he  yet  fought 
with  such  strength  and  courage  that  sixteen  of  the  twenty  perished  beneath 
his  arm.  Then,  covered  with  wounds  and  faint  with  loss  ot  blood,  he 
struggled  with  the  remaining  four  till  at  length  their  weapons  were  buried  in 
his  unconquerable  heart.] 

England,  my  bleeding  country, 

Give  me  a  thousand  men — 
As  whilom  followed  Alfred 

Into  this  dismal  fen  : 
Give  back  a  thousand  of  the  brave 

Who  fell  on  Senlac  Hill, 
And  once  again  old  England 

Will  be  our  England  still. 

In  vain — in  vain  ! — the  voiceless  grave 

Responds  not  to  my  call ; 
No  hero  bursts  the  dusty  tomb 

To  man  the  leaguered  wall, — 
To  struggle  in  the  front  with  me 

Once  more  for  England's  crown, 
And  aid  to  dash,  with  reddened  axe, 

The  Norman  standard  down  ! 

A  foreign  tongue  is  spoken  now 

Within  our  ancient  hall, 
Far  other  feasts  adorn  the  board, 

And  other  shields  the  wall : 


Hereivard.  29 

Ancestral  Brun  !  thy  trees  were  green, 

And  fair  thy  rippling  streams ; 
Scene  of  my  sainted  mother's  love, 

My  boyhood's  daring  dreams. 

But  my  veins  surged  at  fever  heat, 

My  heart  beat  proud  and  high  ; 
I  yearned,  I  burned  to  glorious  live, 

Or  yet  more  glorious  die  : 
No  rattle  pleased  me  when  a  babe, 

'Twas  the  trumpet's  sternest  call ; 
E'en  then  the  dearest  toy  I  knew 

Was  the  war-axe  on  the  wall. 

Anon  I  heard  the  gleeraan's  lay 

Of  deeds  on  land  and  sea, 
Till  earth,  with  all  its  mighty  girt, 

Became  too  small  for  me  : 
Oh,  to  burst  from  my  quiet  home 

-  To  the  broad  noon-day  of  fame. 
Till  the  gleeman's  song  and  the  gleeman's  lyre 

Should  ring  with  Hereward's  name  ! 

*  Old  England,  thou  hast  not,'  I  said, 

*  Of  toil  and  strife  enow ; 
I'll  seek  in  mightier  fields  to  win 

A  laurel  for  my  brow.' 
Enough  !  in  sooth  I  had  to  go. 

By  an  edict  from  the  throne^ 
Of  all  that  appertained  to  me, 

I  took  my  sword  alone. 

'Tis  not  for  me  to  tell  my  deeds, 

Or  how  my  blood  was  poured ; 
And  how  the  kings  of  Europe  bade 

I'or  Hereward  and  his  sword  : 
C 


30  The  A  mpiilla. 

How,  covered  with  renown  in  arms, 
I  sought  my  native  shore, 

To  find  I  had  no  country — - 
I  had  a  home  no  more. 

O  England,  had  I  stood  by  thee 

In  thy  dire  hour  of  ill, 
And  led  on  my  father's  vassals 

To  Senlac's  awful  hill, 
And  dashed  sheer  at  the  Norman  front 

With  a  thousand  Lincoln  men, 
Not  all  the  might  of  Normandy 

Had  routed  Harold  then  1 

The  war  I  wage  is  hopeless, 

And  that  full  well  1  know ; 
It  but  remains  to  sell  my  life 

Full  dearly  to  the  foe  : 
And  ne'er  shall,  Hereward  living, 

The  Pale  Horse  flag  be  furl'd — 
One  sword  and  one  heroic  heart 

Against  a  banded  world  1 


THE  AMPULLA. 

A  LEGEND  OF  THOMAS  A  BECKET, 

[Among  the  regalia  preserved  in  the  Tower,  there  is  ihe  ampulla,  or  golden 
eagle,  for  the  consecrated  oil  with  which  the  king  is  anointed  at  his  coronation. 
A  singular  tradition  regarding  the  ampulla  states  that  it  was  brought  by 
the  Virgin  to  Thomas  h.  Becket,  while  he  was  praying  in  a  church  at  Sens 
during  his  banishment.  The  Virgin,  at  the  same  time,  gave  the  saint  a  small 
phial,  and  assured  him  that  the  kings  anointed  from  it  would  be  happy  and 
prosperous.] 

In  tears  before  the  altar  rail 

The  exiled  Becket  lay, 
While  dimly  on  his  cord  and  cowl 

Streamed  in  the  light  of  day— 


The  A  uipulla.  3 1 

Streamed  faintly  through  the  painted  glass, 

In  soft  and  solemn  flow, 
And  slumbered  on  the  broad,  dark  stones 

That  hid  the  dead  below, — 
The  dead  that  in  the  aisle  of  Sens 

Were  buried  long  ago. 

And  drear  and  deep  were  Becket's  moans, 

As  on  those  flags  he  lay ; 
And,  high  among  the  hills  of  heaven, 

The  angels  heard  him  pray; 
His  voice  echoed  sepulchral 

Beneath  the  hollow  stone — 
The  prayer  for  England's  altar. 

The  sigh  for  England's  throne. 

The  marble-cold  Madonna 

Looked  on  a  Becket's  woe 
From  behind  her  snowy  drapery, 

In  that  church  of  long  ago  ; 
And  the  breath  of  the  Almighty  struck 

That  marble,  cold  and  white, 
And  glared  red  through  the  church  of  Sens 

A  more  than  earthly  light ; 
And  all  the  dead  below  the  stones 

Waked  in  their  dreamless  night. 

Down  from  the  niche  the  Virgin  stepped, 

As  the  ancient  legends  say. 
And  moved,  in  sculptured  majesty, 

To  the  stone  where  Becket  lay. 
And  past  the  altar  jjix  and  cross 

Held  her  unearthly  way  : 
The  snow-white  stone  that  made  her  lips 

Assumed  the  rose's  hue, 


32  The  Avipulla. 

The  marble  eyes  grew  clear  and  calm 

As  morning's  pearly  dew  ; 
Her  bosom  heaved,  her  garment  flowed, 

She  breathed  the  summer  air ; 
The  evening  threw  a  golden  flash 

Upon  her  streaming  hair. 

*  All  hail ! '  the  marble  Virgin  said, 

'  Rise  from  thy  bended  knee, — 
Thou'rt  entered  in  the  roll  of  heaven, 

To  die  for  God  and  me  : 
I  see  thee,  on  the  altar  steps, 

Fall  back  to  rise  no  more, 
I  see  that  lofty  fane  in  Kent  ^ 

Red  with  thy  saintly  gore, 
And  martyr-glory  like  to  thine 

Was  never  known  before. 
The  harp-strings  in  the  halls  of  God 

Shall  lose  their  primal  tone, 
The  hymnal  round  the  Throne  shall  change, 

As  eternity  rolls  on  : 
When  warriors  of  the  sword  of  steel 

Are  dead  and  vulgar  clay, 
And  history  points  but  dimly 

To  their  weird  and  stormy  day, 
Thou,  soldier  of  a  mightier  sword. 

Shall  flash  far  through  the  gloom, ^ 
In  every  brain  thy  memory, 

In  every  heart  thy  tomb. 

*  Bleeding,  'mong  Calvary's  olive  trees, 

In  agony  died  my  Son, 
That,  blot  among  a  million  worlds, 
This  earth  should  back  be  won — 

'  Canterbury  Cathedral,  where  k  Becket  was  murdered,  H7a 


The  Ampulla.  33 

Won  back  to  be  a  world  of  bliss, 

Instead  of  bane  and  doom — 
He,  dying,  took  the  sting  from  Death, 

The  terror  from  the  tomb  : 
And  o'er  all  hills  Mount  Calvary 

Stands  glorious,  bright,  divine, 
There  hangs  a  halo  not  of  earth 

O'er  her  olive  and  her  vine  : 
That  halo,  somewhat  dimmer. 

Shall  light  the  altar  stone. 
Where,  loyal  friend  to  England's  Church, 

Hence  foe  to  England's  throne. 
Thy  blood,  thy  heart's  blood,  Becket 

(Thy  floors  by  murderers  trod), 
Shall  rush  out  under  ruffian  blades 

In  martyrdom  to  God  ! 

♦  Take  thou  this  sacred  eagle, 

Take  it  to  thy  island  home ; 
And  the  Beauty  of  old  Greece, 

And  the  Might  of  ancient  Rome, 
Shall  dwindle  into  nothingness 

'Fore  the  great,  the  grand,  the  free, 
The  focus-light  of  all  the  world — 

The  England  that's  to  be  ! 
Lo,  the  future  on  my  soul 

A  prophetic  vision  flings — 
A  PEOPLE  greater  than  their  isle, 

And  grander  than  their  kings — 
Harnessing  fire,  wielding  the  winds. 

And  the  lightnings  of  the  sky, — 
The  only  spear  in  all  the  land, 

The  spear  upon  the  rye  ! 

♦  Take,  holy  man,  this  eagle. 
This  pledge  of  gold,  fj-om  me. 


34  RicJiard  Lion-Heart. 

And  this  ijhial,  filled  in  heaven 

From  the  dew  uj)on  the  tree 
That,  blooming  in  eternity, 

Throws  odour,  shade,  and  balm 
Upon  the  choir  that  sing  the  song 

Of  Moses  and  the  Lamb  ! ' 

Dumb  and  bewildered  Becket  rose, 

And  crossed  to  England's  shore ; 
With  h'm  the  golden  eagle 

And  phial-gift  he  bore. 
And  hastened  to  the  fane  in  Kent 

That  soon,  with  martyr  gore, 
Reeked  under  stabs  of  murtlerous  swordd. 

As  the  Virgin  had  foretold, 
"When  the  martyr  prayed  at  holy  Sens 

In  the  saintly  days  of  old. 

And,  even  to  this  very  day. 

From  nations  far  and  wide, 
Men  come  and  look  with  pious  awe 

On  the  spot  where  Becket  died ; 
And  to  this  day  the  eagle, 

And  the  phial  filled  with  dew, 
Are  seen  in  London's  ancient  Tower, 

To  prove  the  legend  true — 
The  consecrated  phial, 

And  the  eagle  all  of  gold — 
Dim  relics  of  the  mysteries 

Of  the  saintly  days  of  old. 

RICHARD  LION-HEART. 

A  LAY  OF  THE  CRUSADES. 

[At  Ascalon,  Richard  I.  was  seized  with  lever.     But  even  severe  illness 
could  not  abate  the  warlike  ardour  of  his  temperament ;  and  when  he  could 


Ricliai'd  Lion- Heart.  35 

no  longer  stand  upon  his  feet,  he  ordered  that  he  should  be  carrie  1  in  front 
of  the  walls  on  a  litter,  that  he  might  superintend  operations,  and  incite  the 
Christians  to  a  vigorous  prosecution  of  the  siege.] 

*  Ha  !  ha  !  my  veins  are  raging  hot, 

My  hectic  senses  reel ! 
Pshaw,  fever !     Bring  my  harness,  squire, 

My  morion  of  steel. 
I  cannot  live  supine  like  this, 

And  die  like  coward  slave  : 
Ho,  reeling  front  of  battle  be 

The  death-bed  of  the  brave  ! 

*No,  no,  my  Berengaria  ! 

Take  that  bandage  from  my  head, 
And  bring  me,  gentle  wife  of  mine, 

The  iron  helm  instead  : 
And  put  thy  snow-white  favour 

In  my  plume,  so  dark  and  high ; 
Steel  harness  be  my  winding-sheet, 

A  soldier  let  me  die  ! 

* 

'  Know,  in  this  sainted  Palestine 

The  Saviour  died  for  me ; 
And  my  good  sword  and  strong  right  arm 

Shall  strike  for  Him  and  thee ; 
And  ne'er  shall  heathen  sandals  tread, 

And  heathen  banners  wave, 
O'er  the  garden  of  His  agony, 

The  glory  of  His  grave  ! 

No  !  o'er  the  Moslem  turban, 

And  the  flashing  scimitar, 
We'll  pour  the  hosts  of  England 

In  the  thunder-crash  of  war. 
On,  warriors  of  the  high  crusade, 

Bended  bow  and  swinging  sword,-  — 


3^  Richard  Lion-Heart. 

And  wave  o'er  Pagan  Ascalon 
The  banner  of  the  Lord  ! 

*  Gird  on  my  heavy  armour, 

Bring  my  war-horse  from  the  stall ; 
Sound  the  trumpet,  shout  Jehovah  1 

Forward,  onward  to  the  wall ! 
Come,  gentle  Berengaria, — 

Through  the  vizor  bars  a  kiss ; 
And  I'll  leave  to  weak  old  women 

A  dying  bed  like  this. 

*  Let  Leopold  of  Austria 

Die  thus,  when  die  he  may ; 
Let  craven  Philip  breathe  his  last 

Far  from  the  battle  fray ; 
The  couch  of  Richard  Lion-heart 

Must  be  the  crimson  sod, 
Where,  'neath  the  bannered  cross,  he  fought 

For  glory  and  for  God. 

*  See,  holy  Carmel's  dark  with  shame, 

Red  blushes  Jordan's  tide, 
That  Saladin  should  hold  a  day 

The  land  where  Jesus  died  ; 
Ho  !  where  the  dead  lie  thickest 

Upon  earth's  groaning  breast. 
At  eve  search  for  King  Richard, 

And  lay  him  to  his  rest ! 

*And  not  in  dear  old  England 

Lay  you  your  leader  dead. 
But  deep  within  this  holy  land 

Lay  you  his  helmed  head  ; 
Not  English  oak,  but  Syrian  palm, 

Shall  guard  his  soldier's  grave 


The  Ringlet  of  Lcnore.  ij 

In  the  sainted  land  he  Hved  to  love — 
The  land  he  died  to  save  ! 

*  O  Salem,  for  thy  Holy  Tomb, 

O  England,  for  thy  throne, 
King  Death  shall  find  King  Richard 

With  his  armour  girded  on  ; 
He'll  greet  thee.  King  of  Terrors, 

O'er  Jordan's  mortal  flood, 
With  a  forehead  wreathed  in  laurel, 

And  a  hand  imbrued  in  blood  ! 

'  Come,  laggard  knights,  I  charge  you, 

Haste,  ere  the  sun  go  down. 
And  bear  me  on  your  shoulders 

To  the  ramparts  of  the  town  ! — 
Plunge  him  amid  the  battle  shock, 

The  grapple,  yell,  and  groan. 
That  Death  may  find  King  Richard 

With  his  armour  girded  on  1 ' 


THE  RINGLET  OF  LENORE. 

A  LEGEND  OF  THE  CRUSADEa 

'  Ye  Starke  and  hawtane  Macuswakl, 

Thane  o'  Stra-Nid  sae  greane, 
Had  graithed  him  wi'  ye  holy  Crosse, 
To  fare  wi'  Ynglande's  Kynge.' 

ylnficni  Metrical  Romance. 

The  tekbir  yelled  by  Kedron's  stream. 

And  the  Paynim  scimitar 
Flashed  thirsting  'neath  the  midnight  stars 

For  the  crimson  rain  of  war. 


3S  The  Ringlet  of  Leiiore. 

The  turbans  gleamed  like  fields  of  snow 

On  Gehenna's  funeral  sod, 
And  the  Crescent  waved  in  the  pale  moonbeam 

For  Mahomet  and  God. 

Dark  in  the  smile  of  the  silver  moon, 

From  their  native  land  afar, 
Lay  Europe's  crested  chivalry — 

The  ranks  of  the  Holy  War. 

Dark  o'er  them  flapped  the  crimson  Cross, 

O'er  Judah  waving  wide — 
The  Cross  brought  back  to  the  dear  land 

Where  the  Redeemer  died. 

'Twas  the  soldier's  awful  slumber 

On  the  margin  of  his  grave ; 
'Twas  the  night — but  what  the  morrow 

To  the  legions  of  the  brave? 

Ah,  hence  to  gain  renown  on  earth 

And  glory  in  the  sky, 
Freely  my  own  green  Nithsdale  sent 

Her  sons  to  bleed  and  die. 

With  clanking  arms  and  waving  plume, 

Caerlaverock's  portals  pour 
Her  blooming  youth,  her  manhood's  pride, 
To  leave  the  Nith's  for  Jordan's  side, 
To  come  back  o'er  the  ocean  wide, 
■  And — to  come  back  no  more  ! 

To  have  for  Scotland's  bonnie  broom. 

The  tangled  Syrian  vine — 
To  change  for  Solway's  sea-pinks  sweet, 

The  myrrh  of  Palestine. 


The  Ringlet  oj  Lena  re.  39 

And  to  exchange  the  auld  kirk\a!rd 

And  the  wild  rose's  bloom 
For  a  cold  grave  so  far  away, 

The  trench,  the  soldier's  tomb. 

Young  Eustace  from  the  green  Stra-Nid^ 

In  the  torch-illumined  air, 
Pressed  fondly  to  his  boyish  lips 

A  tress  of  yellow  hair. 

The  youth  was  of  the  Maxwell's  blood, — 

An  arm  in  fight  more  strong 
Might  not  be  in  the  serried  ranks 

Of  great  Coeur-de-Lion. 

His  age  was  barely  twenty-two, 

Yet,  in  the  billowy  fight, 
Before  his  glave  full  oft  the  brave 

Had  bade  the  world  good-night. 

And  now,  'mid  acton,  sword,  and  lance, 

On  Judah's  holy  shore. 
The  youth  pressed  in  his  steel-gloved  hand 

The  ringlet  of  Lenore. 

'x\h,  bards  of  future  years  shall  sing, 

How,  in  the  wars  of  yore. 
Reeking  and  red,  o'er  hills  of  dead. 

The  Cross  of  God  I  bore, 
Worthy  of  my  ancestral  line, 

And  worthy  of  Lenore  ! 

'  The  laurel  green  upon  my  brow, 

I'll  dally  in  her  bowers. 
And  hang  this  good  crusader's  sword 

Up  in  my  father's  towers. 


40  The  Ringlet  of  Lenore. 

'  My  lad3c's  locks  of  streaming  gold 
Shall  o'er  my  bosom  play, 

Her  smile  repay  me  for  the  toils 
Of  many  a  fearful  day. 

*  Her  lute  shall  dim  the  memories 
Of  warfare's  stern  alarms ; 

Her  gentle  words,  the  splintering  lance ; 
Her  song,  the  clash  of  arms.' 


'Twas  ruddy  morn,  a  bloody  morn. 
And  mightily  charged  with  doom — 

A  morning  not  of  joy  and  life, 
But  agony  and  the  tomb  ! 

AVildly  the  Cross  and  the  Crescent  streamed 

O'er  battle's  billowy  wave. 
And  steel  blades  rasped  in  Death's  mad  dance — 

The  grim  reel  of  the  grave  ! 

And  banners  sank  and  banners  rose, 

And,  over  hills  of  slain. 
The  Paynim  floundered,  wavered,  fled, 

And  wheeling,  charged  again  1 

The  turbaned  hosts  of  Saladin 

Toiled  till  the  close  of  day, 
And  the  crusader's  clotted  axe 

Hewed  slaughter's  awful  way ! 
And  still,  where  raged  the  fiercest  fight, 

'Mid  battle's  hoarsest  roar. 
Was  seen  the  shearing  sword  that  struck 

For  God  and  for  Lenore  1 


'1  lie  Red-  Cross  Kn  ight.  4 1 

They  toiled  and  died,  foot  set  to  foot 

On  the  shppery  grass  and  red, 
And,  blood-wet  shod,  the  living  scaled 

The  ramparts  of  the  dead  ! 


The  moon  shone  on  the  wreck  of  death 

Strewn  on  the  mournful  shore  \ 
The  fated  paladin  beheld 

That  silver  moon  no  more  : 
Cold  he  lay  on  the  stricken  field 

With  the  Cross  of  God  he  bore, 
And,  gleaming  on  his  gallant  breast, 

The  ringlet  of  Lenore  ! 


THE  RED-CROSS  KNIGHT. 

A  LAY  OF  THE  CRUSADES. 

*  O  Ladye  Jane,  give  a  golden  tress 

Ere  thy  Gilbert  goes  afar, 
Along  with  thy  father  Hildebrand, 

To  fight  in  the  Holy  War ! ' 

The  air  had  the  rosy  breath  of  June, 
The  shades  of  the  evening  fell ; 

The  young  girl  clasped  her  Gilbert's  neck. 
And  wept  as  she  sighed  *  Farewell ! ' 

For  a  long,  long  year  her  orisons 

She  daily  said  for  him, 
And  devoutly  sang  for  his  soul  and  sword 

In  the  holy  convent  hymn. 

As  she  dreamed  in  sleep  in  her  turret  high, 
All  under  the  midnight  stars, 


42  TJie  Red-Cross  Knight. 

Her  Gilbert's  sliade  appeared  by  her  bed, 
Afar  from  the  Holy  Wars. 

His  beaver  dark  was  claspbd  down, 

But  Gilbert's  voice  she  knew, 
And  drearily  a  hearsc-like  plume 

Above  his  morion  flew. 

He  laid  his  cold  hand  on  her  breast,— 

His  hand  all  gloved  in  mail : 
'  Oh,  art  thou  sleeping,  Ladye  Jane  ? — 

Wild  sweeps  the  midnight  gale  ! 

'  Behold  thy  Red-Cross  knight  once  more  ! 

O  ladye,  dost  thou  hear? 
Oh,  dark  is  the  path  through  the  world  of  souls,- 

The  path  that  brought  me  here  ! 

'  Dread  was  the  sweep  of  the  scimitar 

On  Zion's  sacred  crown ; 
The  warm  blood  gushed,  the  chargers  rushed, 

And  the  Red-Cross  knights  went  down. 

'  And  Gilbert  toiled  in  the  battle  crash, 
His  grasp  on  the  reddened  glave. 

And  wildly  mowed  through  the  Paynim  ranks 
The  harvest  of  the  grave. 

'  Pressing  through  Acre's  awful  breach. 

My  mailed  foot  slipt  in  gore, 
And  through  my  brain,  from  brow  to  chin, 

A  Pagan  weapon  shore. 

*  And  o'er  my  corse,  with  slippery  feet, 
Men  rushed  with  might  and  main, 

Till,  trampled  shapeless,  I  was  left 
With  Death — and  Ladye  Jane. 


The  Red-Cross  Knight.  43 

'  Then  thundered  down  the  city  wall, 

Beneath  the  brazen  ram ; 
The  rampart  fell  across  my  chest,— 

Yet,  ladye,  here  I  am  ! 

'  And  then  the  fire  of  very  hell 

Raged  o'er  the  ruin  drear, 
And  I  was  burnt  to  scorching  dust, — 

Yet,  ladye,  I  am  here ! 

'  Now,  by  the  vow  ye  plighted  me 

Down  by  the  sunlit  wave, 
Come,  my  betrothed,  my  bride  to  be, 

Down  in  the  sunless  grave. 

*  Oh,  few,  few  stars  peep  through  the  clouds 

That  hurry  o'er  the  sky ; 
But  such  beseems  a  gentle  one 
Who  wanders  forth  to  die. 

*  The  wind  roars  through  the  lonely  woods, 

The  billows  lash  the  shore, 
The  tower  to  its  foundation  shakes 
As  it  ne'er  shook  before, 

*  And  such  a  wild  and  gloomy  night, 

Oh,  never  met  your  eye ; 
But  such  beseems  a  gentle  one 
Who  wanders  forth  to  die  ! 

'Tis  dreary,  dreary  on  the  shore, 

No  moonbeams  on  the  hill ; 
The  fire-forms  in  the  old  churchyard 
Are  dancing  at  their  will. 

'  A  form  all  sapless  from  the  tomb 
Stands  where  the  scutcheons  wave, 


44  TJie  Red-Cross  Knight. 

And  tropliic'S  rattle  in  the  wind 
O'er  murdered  Hilda's  grave. 

'  In  ghostly  sheet  a  spectre  stands 

Upon  the  midnight  hill, 
And  wails  unto  the  gibbous  moon 

The  wife  of  Larrendill. 

'  But  at  the  crowing  of  the  cock 
Unto  their  graves  they'll  hie : 

Oh,  fit  night  for  a  gentle  one 
To  wander  forth  and  die  ! ' 

'  I'll  go  with  you,'  said  Ladye  Jane, 

'  Where'er  you  lead  the  way ; 
With  you,  my  liege,  my  lord,  I'll  go 
From  earth  and  time  for  aye. 

'  O  Gilbert,  I've  longed  for  this  hour, 

With  you  to  be  at  rest ; 
Then  roll  me  in  that  misty  shroud, 

And  clasp  me  to  your  breast. 

*  I'll  slumber  calm,  my  Red-Cross  knights 
Where'er  you  rest  with  me, 

Be  it  by  Ascalon's  leaguered  walls 
Or  waves  of  Galilee. 

'  Oh,  what  reck  I  of  Hilda's  shade, 

Or,  on  the  midnight  hill. 
The  starlight  on  her  blood-stained  hair. 

The  wife  of  Larrendill  ? 

'  Lead  on — I'll  follow — I'm  your  bride ; 

With  you,  sir  knight,  I'll  rest. 
Where  tons  of  Acre's  bastion 

Are  lying  on  your  breast. 


The  Pale  Bride.  45 

•  With  you,  what  care  I  for  the  storm, 

The  raving  of  the  sky  ? 
O  Gilbert,  Gilbert,  Ladye  Jane 

Will  go  with  you  and  die  ! ' 

He  stretched  his  hand  out,  iron-gloved. 

Thro'  the  burning  lightning's  sheen, 
And  ne'er  'gain  in  this  mortal  world 

Was  knight  or  ladye  seen, 

THE  PALE  BRIDE. 

Radiant  the  smile,  and  light  was  the  step 

Of  the  Norland's  loveliest  girl, 
And  sweet  was  the  bloom  of  the  rose  on  her  lip, 

And  the  wave  of  each  careless  curl ; 
But  sharp  the  thorn  grows,  though  hid  by  the  rose : 

The  maiden  was  false  as  fair, 
And  over  my  life  the  heyday  of  hope 

Set  dark  in  the  night  of  despair. 

*  I  know  a  bride  whom  I  yet  may  win, 

And  to  her  cold  lips  I'll  cling ; 
And  I'll  offer  to  her,  with  my  gauntlet  on, 

The  orange  flower  and  the  ring. 
Ill  woo  my  bride  'mong  the  Paynim  ranks. 

Far  away  in  the  Holy  Land ; 
And  I'll  win  my  bride  with  belt  and  spur, 

And  the  lance  in  my  strong  right  hand. 

*  Ho  !  the  bastion  stormed  shall  be  my  bed, 

And  the  sheets  my  dinted  mail ; 
I'll  kiss  my  bride,  with  unconquered  pride, 

Through  the  bars  of  my  aventayle  ! 

I'll  grimly  woo  with  the  battle-cry. 

And  the  corslet's  blood-dimmed  shine ; 
D 


46  The  Death  of  WalUice. 

And  a  galliard  I'll  dance  on  the  tented  field. 
With  my  bride's  pale  hand  in  mine.' 

And  the  vvarrior  went  to  the  Holy  Land, 

And  he  wooed  with  his  armour  on, 
And  rang  'ncath  his  tread,  as  he  danced  with  his  bride, 

The  rampart  of  Ascalon. 
He  wooed  her  in  steel  and  he  wooed  her  in  blood, 

And  his  bride  still  nearer  came ; 
And  this  grim  bride's  fan  was  the  catapult, 

And  her  girdle  a  burst  of  flame. 

And  warm  and  red  was  the  wine  she  drank, 

But  he  loved  her  all  the  more ; 
She  was  true  as  steel,  but  the  maid  was  not 

He  had  left  on  the  Norland  shore. 
Wedded  he  lay  when  the  day  was  done, 

In  the  burning  city's  breath ; 
And  steel  and  fire  the  bride  had  won — 

Had  won  the  pale  bride,  Death. 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLACE. 

Clack  waves  the  flag  in  young  day's  breath, 
Not  the  flag  of  fight,  but  the  flag  of  the  grave  ; 

And  the  dungeon  clock,  with  its  bell  of  death, 
Rings  for  the  life  of  the  martyred  brave. 

Death  agonies,  cope  with  your  playfellow  now, 
With  the  manhood  of  Wallace  of  Elderslie, 

With  the  might  of  a  god  on  his  proud  dark  brow, 
'Neath  the  ghastly  arm  of  the  gallows  tree  ! 

Ah  !  the  shamble-knife  for  the  freeman's  sword, 
For  the  bravest  heart  ever  throbbed  in  man ; 


The  Death  of  Wallace.  47 

And  the  sledge,  and  the  axe,  and  the  hangman's  cord, 
For  the  rasping  of  steel  in  the  battle  van  ! 

For  the  hundred  fights  in  his  own  rugged  land, 
The  stern  hero-land  of  the  mountain  and  flood, 

For  ages  compelled,  with  the  spear  in  her  hand, 
To  water  the  roots  of  her  thistle  with  blood  ! 

They  beheld  him  now  on  the  bourne  of  doom. 
Who  had  fled  when  the  Carron's  banks  he  trod, 

O'er  the  slaughter  hills  his  plunging  plume, 
Like  a  thunder-cloud  of  the  wrath  of  God. 

They  beheld  him  now  who  had  marched  'gainst  him  olt. 
With  harness  on  shoulder  and  sword  on  the  thigh. 

When  his  battle-rent  gonfalon  streamed  far  aloft, 
And  his  spearmen  stood  round  it  to  conquer  or  die. 

They  beheld  the  right  arm  heavy  ironed  and  chained, 
That  in  far  other  plight  they  had  seen  oft  before — 

On  the  war-riven  sod,  like  the  lightning  of  God, 
It  struck,  and  the  stricken  arose  nevermore. 

They  beheld  him  now  whose  ranks,  'fore  his  shock. 
Were  compelled  in  the  onslaught  to  stagger  and  reel. 

When  the  legions  of  England  wavered  and  broke 
Before  his  wild  torrent  of  tartan  and  steel. 

How  the  naked  chest  throbs  with  the  chains  banded  o'er. 
Heaving  so  brave  with  the  life's  latest  breath  ! 

O  Scotland,  deplore — the  star-land  far  o'er. 

Thy  Wallace  has  gone  to  the  deathless  in  death ! 

And  never  again  in  the  crash  of  the  fight 

Shall  a  sword  hke  to  his  be  wielded  for  thee, 
Or  the  spell  of  a  name  so  splendid  and  bright 

Be  the  theme  and  the  fire  of  the  songs  of  the  free ! 


48  Death  of  Ediuard  the  First. 


DEATH  OF  EDWARD  THE  FIRST. 

[Hearing  of  the  coronation  of  Bruce  at  Scone,  and  of  one  or  two  minor 
successes  of  the  Scottish  arms,  Edward  the  First,  though  now  old  and  infirm, 
resolved  to  subdue,  once  for  all,  that  stubborn  country,  the  attempted  con- 
quest of  which  had  already  cost  him  such  an  expenditure  of  blood  and  treasure, 
and  the  complete  subjugation  of  which  had  been  the  ruling  ambition  of  his 
life.  Collecting  the  armed  force  of  his  kingdom,  he  marched  northwards, 
determined,  as  he  said,  to  thoroughly  conquer  Scotland,  even  at  the  sacrifice, 
if  need  be,  of  reducing  the  whole  country  to  a  scorched  and  uninhabited 
wilderness.  The  infirmities  of  old  age,  added  to  an  internal  disease,  and  the 
injury  received  from  a  kick  of  his  horse  as,  in  soldier  fashion,  he  lay  near  it 
during  the  night,  so  much  reduced  the  indomitable  old  '  Hammer  of  Scot- 
land,' that  he  died  at  Burgh-upon-Sands,  near  Carlisle,  on  his  march  north- 
wards, on  the  7th  of  July  1307,  in  the  sixty-eighth  year  of  his  age — almost  in 
sight  of  the  land,  the  national  independence  of  which  he  had  determined  to 
annihilate.  It  is  recorded  that  he  enjoined  upon  his  son  to  lead  the  army 
into  Scotland,  and  to  carry  his  unburied  skeleton  in  the  front  of  battle  till 
Scotland  was  finally  crushed.  In  anticipation  it  yielded  some  satisfaction  to 
the  stern  old  soldier,  that  at  least  his  bones  would  be  present  at  the  scene 
which,  above  all  others,  he  had  yearned  to  witness— the  scene  of  Scotland's 
final  overthrow  and  submission.] 

The  moon  shone  dim  in  heaven, 

And  the  clouds,  in  ragged  bars, 
By  the  midnight  winds  were  driven 

O'er  the  dreamy  roof  of  stars. 
Weirdly  the  waves  of  Solway 

Tossed  moaning  on  the  shore, 
Wailing,  in  night,  a  dirge  for  him 

Who'd  see  the  day  no  more. 

The  red  star  of  a  troubled  life 

Sets  not  in  reeling  fight, 
But  on  a  silent  Cumbrian  heath 

It  peaceful  sets  to  night. 
Solemn  the  mockery  of  Fate, 

That  he  whose  blade  flashed  high 
On  Judah's  field,  by  red  Garonne, 

Should  seek  this  moor  to  die  ! 


Death  of  Edivard  the  First.  49 

Most  resolute  Plantagenet 

That  ever  bore  the  name, 
Where  is  the  might  of  glorious  fight, 

The  glare  of  steel  and  flame, 
The  dying  groan,  the  wild  hurrah, 

The  charging  battle-line, 
That  should  have  sent  eternity 

A  fiery  soul  like  thine?' 

True,  in  the  darkness  round  you 

Are  miles  and  miles  of  spear ; 
But  there's  no  Graeme,  no  Douglas, 

There's  Beauchamp  and  De  Vere. 
There's  not  a  hostile  weapon 

On  all  this  Solway  shore ; 
There  are  the  daring  ranks  you've  led, 

Which  you  shall  lead  no  more  ! 

Few  are  the  locks  and  sober  grey 

The  iron  helm  hath  left. 
And  all  the  cares  and  all  the  toils 

Of  thy  life's  warp  and  weft ; 
And  less  of  manhood's  daring 

Sits  on  thy  furrowed  brow. 
Less  are  the  strength  of  brain  and  limb 

That  grace  thee,  Edward,  now. 

One  thing  remains,  undying  hate. 

And  fierce,  for  Scotland's  weal, 
And  rancorous  hatred  for  the  edge 

Of  Scotland's  patriot  steel : 
Around  thy  dying  bed  there  is 

No  prayer,  no  saintly  hymn, 
But  scathing  gleams  of  wrath,  which  not 

The  mists  of  death  can  dim  ! 


50  DeatJi  of  Edivard  the  First. 

'  In  Winchester,  in  Fonteveraud, 

Sleep  heroes  of  my  line, 
Eiit  let  no  tomb  of  brass  or  stone 

Hallow  these  bones  of  mine. 
Wherever  thunder  English  drums, 

Where  English  trumpets  flare, 
Full  shoulder  high,  white  and  erect, 

The  bones  of  Edward  bear  1 

*  Ho,  get  the  furnace  ready, 

The  caldron  set  thereon, 
And  plunge  me  in  the  seething  midst, 

The  moment  life  has  gone  ! 
And  boil  me  till  this  sinewy  flesh 

Fall  off  its  osseous  frame. 
Then  bear  aloft  my  rattling  bone 

To  conquest  and  to  fame  ! 

*  Oh,  rather  had  I  met  the  Scots 

Upon  the  trampled  sod. 
Than  go  to-night,  a  spirit-king. 

To  meet  my  fathers'  God  : 
Grim  Scotland  prostrate  on  the  field, 

With  battle's  thunder  riven, 
How  joyously  had  Edward  gone 

With  his  red  blade  to  heaven  ! 

*  One  wild  hurrah  that  Scotland's  down, 

Then,  pale  Death,  ope  thy  door; 
His  work  well  done.  King  Edward  comes 

Unto  thy  shadowy  shore. 
It  cannot  be  ;  across  the  firth 

Lies  the  unconquered  clime — 
I  die,  not  perfumed  by  her  blood, 

But  fragrant  moorland  thyme. 


Elu  \ore.  5 1 

*  O  Scotland,  Scotland,  how  I  curse 

Thy  stubborn,  struggUng  race  ! 
All  other  ranks  I  e'er  opposed 

Have  fled  before  my  face. 
And  so  shall  yours,  before  my  face — 

My  white  face  of  the  grave — 
When  meet  King  Edward's  eyeless  orbs 

The  visage  of  the  brave  ! 

*  Wherever  death  stalks  terrible, 

That  is  the  place  for  me. 
Dash  forward  with  the  rowels  deep. 

The  sword-arm  swinging  free — 
Put  lance  into  my  fleshless  hand — • 

Helm  on  my  fleshless  head — 
Fight !  though  a  thousand  Wallaces 

Should  rise  up  from  the  dead  !' 

The  monarch  ceased  in  mortal  gasp, 

Nor  ever  spake  again  : 
The  Bruce,  in  steel  from  head  to  heel, 

Passed  'fore  his  dying  brain — 
Blent  phrenzied  hatred  to  the  Scots 

With  love  for  Elinore^ — 
A  spasm — and  the  '  Hammer '  fell, 

To  rust  for  evermore. 


ELINORE. 

A  BALLAD  OF  CHIVALRIE. 

'TwAS  high-born  Ladye  Elinore, 

A  ladye  fair  was  she — 
Her  castle  turrets  towered  full  high. 
Where  waved  the  banner  to  the  sky, 

Down  by  the  thundering  sea. 

*  His  fiibt  wife,  Elinore  of  Castile,  to  whom  he  was  deeply  attached. 


52 


Elhiore. 

Her  eyes  were  of  the  blue-bell's  tint 

When  wet  with  evening  dew; 
From  'neath  the  golden  coronet's  rim, 
Making  the  sheen  of  jewels  dim, 

Her  flaming  tresses  flew. 

Her  dainty  glove,  her  tiny  glove, 

Like  a  leaf  of  the  leafy  plane, 
Often  upon  the  warrior's  lance 
Had  sunk  in  blood  in  death's  red  dance, 

The  wearer's  hand  to  gain. 

Young  Gilbert  was  a  gallant  knight, 

Of  matchless  arm  and  brain — 
A  braver  never  horse  bestrode, 
Nor  e'er  the  lists  of  tourney  trod, 
Nor  e'er  gave  up  his  soul  to  God 
Upon  the  battle  plain. 

The  ladye  loved  her  Gilbert  brave, 

But  ne'er  her  love  would  own. 
And  scornful  glanced  on  the  young  knight, 
As  she  had  worn  in  her  own  right 
A  monarch's  starry  crown. 

*  O  Ladye  Elinore,'  he  said, 

*  The  task  you  set  is  done, 
And  now  let  church  and  bridal  bell 
Reward  my  toil,  'mid  carnage  fell. 

That  knightly  laurels  won.' 

*  I've  yet  one  task,'  the  ladye  said, 

'  And  when  this  task  is  done, 
Tell  me  of  church  and  bridal  bell, 
And  rasping  steel,  and  slaughter  fell, 

And  knightly  laurels  won. 


Elinor e.  53 

*  My  castle  wall's  not  broad  at  top, 

My  castle  wall  is  high  ; 
Along  the  giddy  summit  ride, 
With  belt  and  spur  in  knightly  pride, 

And  win  my  hand  or  die.' 

•  •  •  •  •  • 

Aloft  there  tramped  a  coal-black  steed, 

And  Gilbert  sat  thereon  ; 
His  warrior  plume  waved  in  the  gale, 
And,  on  his  battle-dinted  mail, 

The  stars  of  heaven  shone. 

Oh,  narrow  is  the  wall  at  top, 

Ride  wary,  Gilbert  brave  ; 
High  in  the  gloom,  'twixt  earth  and  heaven, 
Near  the  old  banner,  soiled  and  riven, 

Above  the  thundering  wave  ! 

Alone  the  ladye  waits  below, 

And  looks  with  straining  eye 
At  the  dim  form  of  horse  and  man 
Moving,  through  her  tremendous  plan, 

Athwart  the  midnight  sky. 

'Tis  o'er  !  on  Elinore  in  tons 

The  great  stones  tumbling  go — 
The  task  near  done,  the  wall  gave  way, 
Near  a  frail  turret,  worn  and  grey, 
And  dashed  to  death  in  this  wild  play, 
The  ladye,  knight,  and  charger  lay. 

Full  ninety  feet  below. 

And  still,  when  roar  the  storms  of  night, 

And  tumbles  wild  the  sea, 
A  form  in  battle-dinted  mail. 
Aloft  in  air,  'mid  fire  and  hail. 

From  dim  Eternitie, 


54  TJie  Bride  of  Steel. 

Waves  higli  his  blade  athwart  the  stars, 
Red  with  the  stain  of  olden  wars, 

And  spurs  his  phantom  steed 
O'er  where,  five  hundred  years  ago, 
He  undertook,  for  weal  or  woe, 

The  frantic  task  decreed  ; 
And  shouts  'mid  ocean's  wildest  dash, 
And  o'er  the  thunder's  loudest  crash, 

'  My  Ufe,  my  bride  is  won ! 
From  the  dim  world  of  "  Nevermore," 
I  claim  you,  Ladye  Elinore ; 

The  task  you  set  is  done  1 ' 


THE  BRIDE  OF  STEEL. 

I  LOVE  thee  with  a  warrior's  love, — 

My  Sword,  my  Life,  my  Bride  ! 
Dear,  dear  as  ever  knighthood  bore, 
'J  Iiough  yet  no  gout  of  battle-gore 

Thy  virgin  blade  hath  dyed  ! 

I  kiss  thee,  with  my  veins  on  fire  ! 

Grasped  by  my  iron  glove, 
On  the  harvest-field  of  Death  and  Fame, 
'Mid  groan  and  yell,  through  steel  and  flame, 
Carve  out  for  me  a  laurelled  name, — 

My  Bride,  my  Life,  my  Love  ! 

Take  your  death-bed  of  silk  and  down, 

Stale,  leaden-hearted  slave ; 
Where  War's  fierce  roses  redly  bloom, 
To  mark  the  warrior's  glorious  tomb^ 

I'd  die,  as  die  the  brave ! 


The  Bride  of  Steel.  5  5 

From  childhood  I  have  ahvays  felt,- — 

Ay,  at  my  mother's  knee, — 
The  bannered  clouds  o'er  earth  unfurl'd, 
Eternal  space  and  the  vast  world 

Not  wide  enough  for  me  ! 

Under  yon  castle's  feudal  walls 

The  battle's  raging  fell ; 
Then  come  with  me,  my  Bride  of  Steel, — 
The  Dance  of  Death  our  bridal-reel ; 
Our  music,  through  each  rush  and  wheel, 

The  conflict's  groan  and  yell ! 

A  day,  an  hour  of  high-souled  life, 

Ten  thousand  years  outweighs 
Of  reptile  being  dastards  feel. 
My  virgin  bride,  my  Bride  of  Steel, 

Whose  beauty's  Glory's  blaze ! 

Is't  better  to  crawl  many  years, 

Or  press  all  life  in  one. 
Travelling  on  Glory's  blazoned  road, 
The  ladder  of  the  stars  to  God, 

Before  with  earth  we've  done  ? 

I  love  thee,  maiden,  wildly,  well,  — 

Again  I  kiss  thee,  dear ! 
The  grass  is  green,  the  welkin  red, 
The  raven's  shrieking  for  the  dead  : 

Our  wedding-day  is  near  ! 

My  dinted  mail  shall  be  my  shroud, 

My  sexton  dark  the  crow ; 
Broken  and  rusted,  by  my  side 
Thou'lt  lie,  and  over  us,  my  Bride, 

Shall  Fame's  red  blossoms  glow  ! 


56  Never  More. 

'  Best  of  the  Brave,'  and  *  True  as  Steel/ 

The  minstrel  song  shall  say; 
Tuned  to  its  most  heroic  key, 
The  harp  shall  ring  of  you  and  me 
Till  Time's  remotest  day ! 

Who  would  exchange  the  raven's  bill 
For  churchyard  calm  and  cold  ? — 
His  sword,  and  his  last  battle's  clang, 
The  tearing  of  the  she-wolf's  fang, 
The  dying  warrior's  martyr-pang, 
For  life  and  tons  of  gold? 

Flushed  on  the  bridal-bed  of  Death, 

My  Bride  of  Steel,  you'll  lie ; 
And  Mars,  the  heaven's  reddest  star, 
Shall  light  the  redder  turf  of  War, 
Where  we  so  glorious  lie  1 


NEVER  MORE. 

Weird  is  the  night,  dark  is  the  day, 
The  pride  of  the  world  sleeps  in  clay ; 
Reckless  ever  of  life  and  breath, 
Onward  the  warrior  rode  to  death  : 
He,  in  the  flush  of  manhood's  bloom, 
Mangled,  rests  in  a  far-off  tomb. 
O  come  to  me  from  the  lone  dim  shore ! 
Alas  !  oh,  never — never  more  ! 

Lorn  I  sit  by  your  little  chair, 
I've  a  lock  of  your  baby  hair ; 
The  very  hoop  you  trundled  round, 
Unknowing  of  the  battle-ground 


Neve}'  More.  57 

Where  rams  should  thunder,  sabres  sway, 
From  dawn  till  eve  one  fearful  day. 

0  speak  to  me  as  you  spoke  of  yore  ! 
Alas  !  oh,  never — never  more  ! 

1  see  thee  not,  worthy  thy  sire, 

In  thy  young  manhood's  strength  and  fire ; 
My  heart  turns  to  an  earlier  day. 
When  I  would  join  thee  at  thy  play, 
And  kiss  thy  smooth  young  childish  brow — 
O  God  !  where  is  that  forehead  now  ? 
Rise,  O  rise  from  the  shroud  of  gore  ! — 
Alas  !  oh,  never — never  more  ! 

Th'  embattled  rock  rose  sheer  and  high 
Beneath  the  gloomy  midnight  sky  ; 
High  'mong  the  mist  the  watchfire's  glow 
Gleamed  on  the  armour  of  the  foe. 
A  rush — a  shriek — a  maddening  yell, 
And  my  son  fell  where  thousands  fell. 
Speak  to  me — ah,  the  north  wind's  roar 
Has  a  wild  shriek  of  '  Never  more  I ' 

For  you  your  sister  Brenda  weeps, 
In  the  old  vault  your  father  sleeps, 
And,  riderless,  the  charger  neighs 
You  fearless  rode  in  former  days ; 
And  Dora  of  the  sunny  brow. 
My  son,  my  son,  would  wed  you  now. 
But  your  bride's  Death  on  a  hostile  shore, 
And  you'll  desert  her  never  more  1 

Ah,  little  did  your  mother  dree. 
As  you  lay  cradled  on  her  knee, 
What  hard-won  laurels  you  should  win. 
What  lands  you  were  to  travel  in, 


58  The  Choice  of  SigismtDid. 

And  'neath  the  banner  streaming  high, 
The  fearful  death  you  were  to  die, 
And,  far  away  from  kith  and  kin, 
The  tomb  you  were  to  moulder  in. 
'Twixt  you  and  me  the  ocean's  roar 
Has  a  wild  plunge  of  '  Never  more  !' 


THE  CHOICE  OF  SIGISMUND. 

[St.  Augustine  or  Austin,  according  to  a  mediaeval  monkish  legend, visited 
a  place  called  Compton,  where  the  lord  of  the  manor  had  rendered  himself 
notorious  by  his  resistance  to  the  collecting  of  church  tithes.  The  conse- 
quent incidents  at  Compton  as  narrated  by  Dan  John,  a  monk  of  the  fifteenth 
century,  were,  in  all  essentials,  as  we  have  recorded  them  in  the  ballad. 
In  the  seventeenth  century,  the  Spanish  poet,  Calderon,  based  oue  of  the 
most  famous  of  his  dramas  on  this  or  a  similar  legend.] 

'TwAS  in  the  days,  the  grand  old  days, 

Of  morion  and  sword  ; 
'Twas  in  the  age,  the  dim  old  age 

Of  monkish  cowl  and  cord, 
When  the  only  light  of  England 

Was  Ruin's  fiery  brand. 
Where  the  shadow  of  the  Abbey 

Fell  darkly  o'er  the  land, 
St.  Austin  banned  with  awful  ban 

The  bad  who  would  not  pray, 
And  cursed  with  still  more  blasting  curse 

The  bad  who  would  not  pay. 

'  Depart  from  out  this  sacred  fane  ! ' 

The  holy  Austin  cried, 
*  All  ye  profane,  for  whom  in  vain 

The  blest  Redeemer  died  1 ' 
Out  crept  the  guilty  living 

Fore  this  appalling  cry. 


The  Choice  of  Sigisnmnd.  59 

Doomed,  in  their  own  dark  consciousness, 

The  deathless  death  to  die  : 
They  struggled  out  in  broken  file, 

Their  wretched  homes  to  find — 
The  ruthless  roar  of  reddening  hell 

Was  in  the  winter  wind. 
They're  gone  ;  and  now  the  Abbey  walls 

The  lost  and  saved  ones  sunder. 
High  God !  what  means  that  whirl  of  smoke, 

That  deafening  crash  of  thunder? 

The  saints,  all  shaken  from  the  walls. 

Lie  shattered  in  the  gloom, 
Gusts  of  infernal  brimstone  choke 

The  censer's  holy  fume. 
The  rich-stained  glass  is  shivered, 

The  symbolic  Crown  and  Key, 
And  the  marble  babe  has  fallen 

From  marble  Mary's  knee ; 
And  hurled  as  by  an  earthquake. 

Lies  broken  in  the  nave 
The  stone  that  had  for  ages  lain 

Upon  a  baron's  grave ; 
While  the  grave  itself  is  open, 

And  rank  and  deep  and  dim, 
The  skulls  and  ribs  of  centuries 

Lie  on  its  awful  brim. 

Blue  burn  the  altar  tapers, 

The  cross  glares  fiery  red, 
And  slowly  from  the  twelve-foot  grave 

Rises  the  sheeted  dead. 
The  breath  of  ice,  the  stench  of  death. 

The  Abbey  fill  meanwhile, 
And  silently  the  dead  man  glides 

Dim  shuddering  down  the  aisle. 


6o  The  CJioice  of  Sigismiind. 

Horrid  the  deep  dark  sockets, 

The  eyes  for  ages  gone, 
The  tramp  of  bare  phalanges, 

The  rattling  shoulder-bone ! 

Horrid  the  dim  round  knee-cap, 

The  pelvis  strong  and  white  ; 
And  through  each  costal  interstice 

The  altar's  candle  light ! 
Black  Ulric  was  a  gruesome  wight 

When  living  men  amid, 
But — on  this  yawning  chancel  floor— 

O  God  ! — to  meet  him  dead  1 

But  still  St.  Austin  pleaded, 

Unscared,  with  stedfast  eye, 
For  needful  tithes  for  holy  church, 

The  bride  of  Christ  on  high. 
Then  :  '  Declare,  O  sheeted  spectre, 

By  all  that  men  revere, 
What  mandate  from  the  other  world, 

What  errand  brought  thee  here  ? 
I  see  ! — Thy  hard,  unhallowed  hand 

The  tithes  refused  to  pay?' 
A  gloom  fell  o'er  the  eyeless  skull, 

The  spectre  nodded,  '  Yea,* 

*  Where  is  the  priest,'  St.  Austin  said, 
'  Who  ne'er  received  thy  dole, 

And  hurled  the  thunders  of  the  church 
Upon  thy  wretched  soul  ?' 

Slowly  uprose  the  fleshless  arm. 
With  rusted  mail  thereon ; 

Slowly  the  falling  shroud  revealed 
The  damp  and  porous  bone ; 


The  Choice  of  Sigismimd.  6 1 

Slowly  the  spectral  finger, 

With  its  ring  of  ruddy  gold, 
Pointed  to  a  lettered  tablet 

In  the  chancel  dim  and  old. 


*  Sigismund,  thou  priest  of  God, 

I  for  him  will  pay  the  dole ; 
Rise,  and  on  its  journey  hellward 

Shrive  and  bless  this  wretched  soul ! 
Thus  spake  Austin,  and  the  tablet 

Rose  from  out  the  marble  floor, 
And  the  monk  of  olden  ages 

In  the  chancel  stood  once  more. 
He  crossed  his  brow  with  holy  water, 

Murmured  o'er  a  Latin  prayer. 
And  the  baron,  blest  and  shriven. 

Melted  into  empty  air. 

'  Sigismund,'  said  holy  Austin, 

'  Centuries  three  thou  now  hast  lain, 
Dust  the  blood-drops  of  thy  heart. 

Dust  the  ganglia  of  thy  brain. 
To  smell  the  rose,  to  see  the  sun, 

To  eat  the  bread,  to  taste  the  wine, 
Must  now  be  boon  unspeakable 

After  a  horrid  sleep  like  thine. 
Then  see  the  sun  and  smell  the  rose, 

That  boon  by  me  is  freely  given, 
I  offer  thee  immortal  life — 

I  stand,  the  delegate  of  Heaven  !' 

•  I've  lived,  I've  died,'  said  Sigismund, 
'  I  know  the  world,  I  know  the  grave, 

I  know  the  creeping  of  the  worm, 
I  know  the  ardour  of  the  brave ; 
E 


62  Tlie  Choice  of  Sigismwid. 

I  knovv  the  working  of  the  brain, 

I  know  the  skull  when  filled  with  dust, 
I  know  the  mail  in  battle  sheen, 

I  know  it,  red  and  rough  with  rust. 
I  know  your  love,  I  know  your  hate, 

Your  weary  round  beneath  the  sky — • 
Ha !  now  my  heart  is  never  false, 

And  my  tongue  cannot  lie  ! 
Your  glory  is  a  fevered  dream. 

But  dreamless  sleep  is  mine  ; 
There's  warmth,  St.  Austin,  in  your  heart, 

But  there  is  peace  in  mine. 
I  know  your  grief,  I  know  your  joy. 

Your  heartache  and  your  toil. 
Your  sweltering  in  the  midday  sun, 

Your  burning  midnight  oil. 


*  I  know  the  hovels  of  your  poor, 

The  spell  that's  in  your  gold. 
Your  dark  defeat,  and  victory's  flush 

Upon  your  banner's  fold. 
For,  Austin,  ere  I  doffed  the  cowl, 

Under  this  floor  to  lie, 
I'd  tried  all  mortal  but  the  tomb, 

All  human  but  to  die. 
I  seek  the  deep  rest  far  below. 

For  the  tossing  on  the  wave ; 
And  I  make  my  eternal  choice, 

I  choose  the  Grave — the  Grave  1' 


The  rising  moon  smiled  sweet  and  calm 

On  the  oriel's  ruddy  pane. 
And  Sigismund  returned  to  sleep. 

Never  to  wake  again. 


Clencoe,  63 


GLENCOE. 

[The  tradition  runs  that  the  hereditary  bard  of  the  tribe  took  his  seat  on  a 
rock  which  overhung  the  place  of  slaughter,  and  poured  forth  a  long  lament 
over  his  murdered  brethren  and  his  desolate  home. — Lord  Macaulay.] 

Woe,  alas  !  and  death,  Maclan, 

Brood  o'er  Leven's  sombre  tide, 
And  the  spirits  of  your  fathers 

In  the  borean  tempests  ride. 
When  the  storm-cloud  dark  is  swelling 

From  the  ever-roaring  main, 
And  the  eagle  wild  is  yelling 

As  he  swoops  upon  the  slain, — 
Seem  to  beckon,  aerial,  awful, 

Dim  from  the  eternal  shore, 
Their  wail,  like  troubled  ocean,  groans, 

'  Maclan  is  no  more  ! ' 

Never  more,  O  righteous  Heaven, 

When  grapple  Death  heroic  men, 
Shall  the  slogan  of  MacDonald 

Wake  the  thunder  of  the  glen  : 
Never,  when  the  Sassenach  foeman 

O'er  the  bourne  of  Time  shall  reel, 
'Fore  the  storm  of  mingled  tartan 

And  the  flash  of  Highland  steel. 
Shall  thy  great  two-handed  broadsword 

Crash  amid  the  battle  din, 
Son  of  sires  who  fought  with  Fingal, 

Clove  the  helmets  of  Lochlinn  j^ 
For  the  phantom  of  your  father, 

Bending  from  the  eternal  shore. 
Is  wailing  through  the  Hall  of  Cloudland 

•  MacDonald  is  no  more  ! ' 
'  Denmark. 


64  Glencoe. 

Lo,  from  this  dreary  rock  I  see 

The  Future's  vista  dim — 
The  clank  and  yell  of  wildest  hell 

Round  visions  swart  and  grim 
Pass  blazing  through  my  rending  brain — 

A  throne  besmeared  with  gore — • 
The  plunging  of  a  troubled  sea 

That  gurgles,  '  Never  more  ! ' — 
A  shriek  that  starts  the  shuddering  moon — 

Then  shimmers  weirdly  down 
Into  that  red,  unfathomed  sea, 

The  royal  Head  and  Crown  : 
The  bubbles  rise,  the  murky  skies 

Gleam  with  a  starry  glow  ; 
A  yell  of  vengeance  peals  above, 

And  agony  below  : 
The  day  has  dawned,  and  God's  right  arm, 

Which  strikes  full  sure,  if  slow, 
Has,  on  the  mighty  ones  of  earth. 

Avenged  thy  wrongs,  Glencoe  1 
But  coldly  hes  the  moonlit  siaow 

On  his  haffets  thin  and  hoar  : 
The  storm  wails  o'er  the  mountain  crags, 

*  MacDonald  is  no  more  1' 

Wave  your  claymores,  wail  the  coronach,^ 

Fill  the  dredgie  ^  to  the  brim ; 
Far  along  the  unborn  ages 

I  behold  the  annals  dim, 
See  the  blood  of  the  Maclan 

Reek  up  from  the  trampled  sod, 
And  descend  upon  Glen  Lyon 

Like  the  thunderbolt  of  God, 
And  the  White  Rose  of  the  Stewart 

In  its  summer  beauty  glow 
*  Diige.  ^  The  cup  at  the  funeral  feasL 


Glencoe.  65 


'Mid  the  terrific  grandeur 
Of  the  Valley  of  Glencoe  ! 

But  O  hon,  O  rie  !  and  O  hon,  O  rie! 
Through  Death's  remorseless  door 

He's  gone,  our  father  and  our  friend, 
*  MacDonald  is  no  more  !' 


Silent  now  the  '  Vale  of  Weeping '^ 

Lies,  a  gaunt  and  frozen  tomb, 
And  the  pall  of  desolation 

Falls  on  the  tremendous  gloom. 
Dark  the  mountains  of  Glencoe 

Lift  their  rock  arms  to  the  sky, 
They  invoke  the  God  of  Vengeance, 

They  invoke  the  Sleepless  Eye, 
While  the  snowflakes,  cold  and  silent, 

Grizzle  o'er  the  mountain's  head. 
Shrouding  father,  babe,  and  mother 

In  the  Valley  of  the  Dead  ; 
And  the  shades  of  the  MacDonalds 

Wail  from  off  the  eternal  shore, 
In  horror  at  this  damnfed  deed, 

*  Maclan  is  no  more  ! ' 

Beneath,  the  slaughtered  mother  lies, 

With  her  baby  on  her  breast ; 
There,  torn  with  shot,  the  husband's  laid 

In  everlasting  rest ; 
There,  manhood's  strength  is  levelled  by 

The  hired  assassin's  blow; 
The  wild  wind  waves  your  hair  in  death, 

O  maidens  of  Glencoe. 
From  the  black  rocks,  with  heather  fringed, 

When  days  are  warm  and  long, 

*  Glencoe  is  the  Gaelic  for  VaJe  of  Weeping. 


66  "  Culloden. 

The  fragrant  breeze  shall  bear  no  more 

The  lilting  of  your  song. 
'Tis  blighted  by  the  murderer's  knife, 

Your  beauty  and  your  bloom, 
Your  merry  prattle's  hushed  in  death, 

Your  laughter  in  the  tomb  : 
You  had  your  love,  your  trysting  tree, 

Your  one  o'er  all  beside. 
Your  visions  of  a  bridal  ring, 

And  you  a  happy  bride  ; 
But  ruthless  o'er  the  fair  and  brave 

There  rolled  Destruction's  flood, 
And  the  bridal  bed's  a  dismal  grave, 

The  bridal  favour's  blood. 
The  snow  shall  melt,  the  heather  flush, 

Beneath  the  summer  rain, 
But  ah  !  the  valley's  maiden  flowers 

Shall  never  bloom  again. 

He  comes,  your  bard,  to  meet  you, 
His  clan  who've  gone  before  ; 

For  earth  is  dark  and  desolate, — 
'  MacDonald  is  no  more  ! ' 


CULLODEN. 

*  Dark  Culloden,'  sang  the  Harper, 

On  Mac  Dhui's  awful  brow, 

*  Never,  never  has  the  Northland 

Seen  a  deadlier  field  than  thou  : 
Never  yet  the  rose  of  battle 

Ranker  grew  with  purple  bloom, 
When  the  tartan'd  sons  of  heroes 

Cleft  their  pathway  to  the  tomb. 


CnUoden.  67 

•  Lo,  I  see  the  bolt  of  thunder 

Burst  the  future's  misty  veil — ■ 
Scattered  o'er  thy  moor,  Culloden, 

All  the  glory  of  the  Gael ; 
There  they  lie,  our  sons,  our  heroes, 

Like  sea-wreck  by  the  reeling  wave, 
And  thy  brackens,  wild  Culloden, 

Stream  above  the  slaughtered  brave  3 
And  their  life-tide  curdles  darkly 

In  the  crystal  of  your  rills  : 
Yelling,  hear  the  Highland  eagle 

Swooping  downwards  from  the  hills  ; 
He  comes  to  tear  thy  heart,  Mackenzie, 

Cloven  with  the  Saxon  steel, 
He  screams  o'er  his  wild  carnival, 

The  clansmen  of  Lochiel ! 

*Drumossie  moor,^  Drumossie  moor, 

Thy  dreary  waste  for  aye 
Shall  remain  a  mournful  record 

Of  our  nation's  darkest  day, 
And  mournfully — oh,  mournfully, 

Down  through  the  mist  of  years. 
Of  the  last  and  awful  grapple 

Of  the  Scottish  Cavaliers  ! — 
When  the  standard  of  Glenfinlas 

Riven  fell  to  rise  no  more. 
And  the  White  Rose  of  the  Stewart 

Sank  amid  the  battle  roar. 
Drooped  beneath  the  Lion-Banner, 

Never  more  to  flush  and  bloom. 
Scathed  upon  the  moors  of  Albyn 

By  the  levin  bolt  of  doom, 

'  The  Highlanders  still  refer  to  the  fatal  engagement  which  is  the  subject 
of  this  piece  as  the  Battle  oj  Drumossie  Moor. 


(38  CiiUodcn. 

Buried  'mong  the  wrecks  of  battle 
With  the  broken  Highland  blade. 

Fierce  death-locked  in  the  hero's  hand 
"Who  wore  the  White  Cockade. 


*  Till  the  end  of  time  the  ocean 

Shall  thunder  on  the  shore, 
But  our  grand  old  Scottish  Highlands 

Is  the  Highlands  never  more  ! 
The  gloom  of  desolation  wraps 

The  mountain  and  the  vale, 
And  the  wild  hare  brings  forth  her  young 

On  the  hearth-stone  of  the  Gael. 
No  more  the  clans  the  claymore  grasp 

And  don  the  White  Cockade, 
No  more,  sweet  as  her  native  heath, 

Shall  bloom  the  Highland  maid ; 
No  more  shall  dirk  and  target  rasp 

Against  the  Saxon  spear, 
And  the  age  must  come  shall  barter 

A  clansman  for  a  deer ; 
And  the  laughing  girl  of  Selma 

Must  beat  her  naked  breast, 
She  must,  weeping,  find  a  home 

'Mong  the  forests  of  the  West, 
That  the  dear  spot  where  she  was  born 

May  be  a  coney's  nest, 
That  the  venal  Sassenach  weaver 

May  hunt  upon  the  grave, 
And  desecrate  the  mountain  shore 

That  heroes  died  to  save  ! 
Down  to  Saxon  shops  and  shuttles 

Can  ne'er  descend  our  pride. 
For  us  it  yet  remains  to  die 

As  our  fathers  still  have  died, 


Cullodeii.  69 

To  seek  'mid  battle's  tempest, 

And  the  crash  of  sword  and  spear, 
Six  feet  by  three  of  cold  red  earth 

For  the  Scottish  Cavalier  ! 

'  The  records  of  the  world  shall  note 

How,  torn  with  shot  and  shell, 
In  the  vortex  of  Death's  hurricane 

The  Highland  soldier  fell; 
How  heroes  from  the  braes  of  Mar 

And  wild  Breadalbane  came, 
And  how  the  Athole  tartan  dashed 

Through  withering  walls  of  flame. 
Some  far-off  cairn  of  stones  shall  mark 

Where  perished  Grant  the  brave, 
And  where  the  storm  of  cannon-shot 

Dug  leal  Macdonald's  grave  ; 
Where  Ross  lay  on  his  shivered  blade, 

Exultant  in  his  doom. 
And  down  his  life-earned  handful  bore 

Of  laurels  to  the  tomb ; 
And  the  grey  cairn  shall  glorious  mark, 

In  the  grapple  of  the  fray. 
Where  on  a  holocaust  of  dead 

The  Red  Macgregor  lay ! 

'  May  God  help  thee,  Charlie  Stewart, 

Low  is  the  White  Cockade  ; 
God  protect  our  aged  clansmen, 

And  the  Highland  wife  and  maid ; 
God  be  with  the  brogue  and  sporran, 

God  be  with  the  Highland  blade  ! 
Our  fortune's  low — our  hearts  are  high — 

A  ringing  Highland  cheer. 
Six  feet  by  three  of  deep  red  grave 

For  the  Scottish  Cavalier!' 


prQ  Chivahy. 


CHIVALRY. 

They  knelt  'fore  the  altar's  gilded  rail, 

The  beautiful  and  the  brave, 
In  the  dim  old  abbey  down  in  the  vale, 

O'er  high-born  dust  in  the  grave. 

And  martyr  holy  and  tortured  saint 

Were  limned  on  the  glorious  pane, 
And  the  sunbeams  threw  on  the  carvings  quaint 

A  golden  and  crimson  stain. 

And  the  organ  peal  shook  the  dead  in  their  grave, 

And  the  incense  smoke  died  away 
Down  the  dim-lit  chancel  and  solemn  nave, 

Where  the  dead  in  their  marble  lay. 

The  orange  wreath  in  the  morning's  breatli, 

And  the  warrior's  nodding  plume. 
In  the  hoary  cloister  smiled  at  Death, 

And  the  warp  and  the  weft  of  Doom. 

And  the  noblest  blood  in  the  land  was  there  — 

The  chivalrous  sword  and  mail ; 
And  the  naked  breasts  of  the  Norman  fair 

Throbbed  around  that  altar's  rail. 

And  the  father  leant  on  his  battle  brand. 

And  the  mother  dropped  a  tear, 
And  De  Wilton's  Edith  laid  her  hand 

In  the  gauntlet  of  De  Vere. 

And  the  bridal  ring  and  the  muttered  words, 
And  the  gems  and  the  plumes  of  pride, 

And  the  whispers  low,  and  the  clank  of  swords, 
And  De  Wilton's  girl  was  a  bride. 


Chivalry.  7  ^ 

Heir  to  wide  lands,  she  bore  him  a  son 

On  a  sweet  and  a  silent  day  : 
Where  the  breach  was  won,  and  lost  and  won, 

De  Wilton  was  far  away. 

And  he  wore  her  glove  by  his  mangled  plume, 

And  her  kiss  on  his  lip  still  lay, 
And  his  blade  flashed  dread  as  the  bolt  of  Doom 

From  the  morn  till  the  noon  of  day. 

Wherever  raved  wildest  the  storm  of  blades, 

And  the  red  rain  bloodiest  fell. 
Wherever  thickest  the  troops  of  shades 

Were  hurled  to  the  realms  of  Hell, 


De  Vere's  blue  flag  with  his  Edith's  hair 

Waved  in  the  reeling  van, 
And  rose  and  fell,  'mid  groan  and  yell, 

In  the  chaos  of  horse  and  man. 

It  sank  at  last  in  the  hurricane 

That  raged  round  the  knights  of  De  Vere, 
And  the  world  span  round  his  reeling  brain. 

Laid  bare  by  a  foeman's  spear. 

Hearts  rained  out  blood,  helms  glinted  fire, 
'Mid  the  death  groan  and  hooray ; 

And  knighthood's  pride  toiled,  tugged,  and  died 
Where  the  spangled  banner  lay. 

For  Edith's  hair  on  that  broidered  soy 

Lay  trampled  in  dust  and  gore  ; 
And  Rudolph  had  sworn  to  bear  it  with  joy 

To  her  bower,  or  return  no  more. 


72  Chivalry. 

He  sprang  with  a  shout  from  the  reeling  sod, 

A  gash  on  his  helmless  brow, 
Raised  his  red  hand  aloft  to  God, 

And  hissed  his  dauntless  vow  : 

'  Ye  saints,'  quoth  he,  '  this  soy's  my  shroud, 
Or  I  bear  it  to  Edith  again  ! ' — 

But,  wildas  the  burst  of  the  thunder-cloud. 
Or  the  dash  of  the  roaring  main, 

The  foe  swept  on  ten  thousand  strong 
O'er  Rudolph's  wounded  ten  ; 

The  forest  quakes,  the  mountain  shakes, 
'Neath  the  tramp  of  arm^d  men. 

And  vassal  thralls  with  husky  cheer 

Rush  o'er  the  banner  fair. 
The  blazoned  scutcheon  of  De  Vere, 

And  Edith's  golden  hair. 


t)^ 


Firm  faced  the  host  the  glorious  ten. 
For  Edith,  God,  and  Home — 

Swung  the  angry  sea  of  ten  thousand  men- 
Dashed  the  battle's  bloody  foam. 


His  horse  lay  on  the  carnage-ground 

Upon  that  flag  of  woe ; 
His  mangled  vassals  lay  around. 

And  Rudolph  lay  below, 

'Mid  battered  helm  and  shivered  lance, 
And  corslet,  helm,  and  glaive. 

And  all  the  wrecks  of  War's  wild  dance. 
When  waltzing  to  the  grave. 


Chivalry.  73 

Sighed  o'er  the  field  the  young  morn's  breath  : 

The  foemen  found  him  there, 
His  pale  lips  pressed  in  ghastly  death 

To  Edith's  crimsoned  hair. 

They  laid  him  down  by  the  side  of  her  bed, 

The  monks  who  his  body  bore ; 
His  eyes  had  the  glare  of  the  eyes  of  the  dead, 

His  armour  was  dyed  in  gore. 

A  friar  essayed  the  ladye  to  cheer 

In  the  mournful  tidings  of  ill ; 
But  the  faithful  heart  of  the  bride  of  De  Vera 

Ever,  for  ever  was  still. 

Though  the  babe  still  lay  on  the  high,  white  breast 

That  milk  to  its  dear  lips  gave, — 
Years  laid  him  again  on  that  bosom  to  rest, 

When  he  fell  in  the  ranks  of  the  brave. 


She  followed  her  lord  to  the  halls  of  God 

Ere  that  sorrowful  day  was  done ; 
For  her  lord  had  died  on  the  trampled  sod : 

To  a  corpse  she  had  borne  her  son. 

Now  the  sire  and  the  dame  and  their  gallant  boy 

All  rest  'neath  the  marble  there, 
And  over  them  waves  the  banner  of  soy, 

With  Edith's  blood-stained  hair. 

And  swords  have  clashed  to  the  valiant  tale, 
And  the  voice  of  the  minstrel  sung. 

How  fair  were  the  maids,  how  deadly  the  blades. 
When  the  heart  of  the  world  was  young  ! 


74  V  Envoi. 


L'ENVOI. 

The  oak  trees  dig  their  roots 
Down  through  the  armour's  rust, 

The  wild  herbs  send  their  shoots 
Down  through  the  wild  heart's  dust. 

But  from  the  tomb  is  lit 

Our  valour's  altar  coal, 
And  fire  from  swords  illumines  yet 

The  beacon  of  our  soul. 

Ring  o'er  the  world  our  song, 

An  anthem  of  the  Dead  ; 
Sing  of  the  stern  and  leal, 
And,  with  the  Age  of  Steel, 

Inspire  the  Age  of  Lead. 


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ISAURE  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Bv  W.  STEWART  ROSS  (Saladin). 


■  Mr.  Stewart  Ross  has  the  fervour  of  a  true  and  natural  lyrist.  This  quality  is 
exhibited  to  advantage  in  some  of  his  smaller  pieces,  such  as  the  Ode  to  Burns 
and  the  poem  entitled  "  The  Declaration  of  Sanquhar."  '—Scotsman. 

'  Mr.  Stewart  Ross,  as  we  before  have  had  occasion  to  say .  .  .  has  decided  poetic 
ability,  and  his  muse  seems  to  inspire  him  with  a  certain  fantastic  and  weird 
imagery  which  may  remind  his  American  readers  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe — not  in  its 
rhythm  or  subjects,  but  in  its  passionate  utterances  and  romantic  exaggeration.'— 
The  Open  Court  (Chicago). 

'  "  Isaure"  is  pathetically  and  touchingly  told  ;  a  story  of  intense  passion,  in  the 
telling  of  which  the  author  at  times  rises  beyond  himself  and  shows  us  of  what  he 
is  capable.' —  Wakefield  Herald. 

'The  whole  twenty-one  poems  are  cultured,  fresh,  fragrant,  thoughtful.  .  .  . 
Every  verse  reveals  the  thinker,  obser\'er,  reformer.  .  . .  Every  page  glows  with 
passion  and  throbs  with  life.' — Oldham  Chronicle. 

'  In  most  of  the  poems  will  be  found  a  vein  of  true  inspiration,  ringing  music, 
deep  feeling,  fine  thoughts,  grace  of  utterance,  and  real  pathos.  There  are  here 
both  strength  and  originality.' — Oxford  Times. 

'  Mr.  Stewart  Ross  possesses  the  genuine  poetic  faculty,  and  much  of  what  he 
has  written  will  assert  its  claim  to  more  than  ephemeral  existence.' — Northern 
Ensign. 

'  Mr.  Stewart  Ross  has  already  shown  in  his  "  Lays  of  Romance  and  Chivalry  " 
that  he  is  not  only  a  poet,  but  a  scholar  and  a  thinker.  And  some  of  the  effusions 
in  the  present  volume  maintain  his  reputation,  for  there  runs  through  them  a 
genuine  vein  of  poetic  inspiration.  The  thoughts  are  fine  and  are  expressed  in 
powerful  language.  He  has,  throughout,  the  enthusiasm  of  a  genuine  lyrist.'— 
Perthshire  Advertiser. 

'  Mr.  Stewart  Ross  is  a  poet  of  no  mean  capacity.  There  is  something  original 
in  every  one  of  his  effusions,  which  contain  many  sublime  touches  as  well  as  many 
pathetic  scenes.  There  is  something  horribly  tragic  in  his  descriptive  poem, 
"  I^eonore  :  A  Lay  of  Dipsomania."  ' — Yorkshire  Gazette. 

'  The  poems  are  characterized  by  grace  and  pathos,  and  this  further  contribution 
of  Mr.  Stewart  Ross's  is  calculated  to  greatly  enhance  his  reputation.' — S/tssex 
Daily  Neivs. 

'  Some  of  the  poems  are  very  beautiful,  others  fearful  in  their  intensity  and 
passion,  others  grand  in  their  majesty  of  conception.' —  Workington  Free  Press. 

'  Poetic  effects  .  .  .  marked  by  a  vigour  of  handling,  they  lilt  along  so  rapidly 
that  the  reader's  attention  is  irresistibly  fixed  upon  the  subject  and  the  pictur- 
esqueness  of  its  surroundings.' — Somerset  Herald. 

'Mr.  Ross  has  both  oratorical  fervour  and  poetic  taste.  He  possesses,  too,  a 
wide  range  of  thought  which  enables  him  to  treat  various  subjects  in  various  styles, 
both  as  regards  form  and  conception.  Perhaps  he  is  most  successful  in  his  verses 
on  "  Mabel,"  into  which  he  infuses  a  healthy  passion,  and  through  the  whole  of 
which  he  sustains  his  character  well.' — Fifcshirc  Journal. 

'  Can  play  upon  the  human  heart  as  upon  a  harp.  .  .  .  The  weird  imagery,  the 
mad  passion,  the  hot  rush  of  emotions,  carry  the  reader  away  into  the  realm  of 
dreams.' — Northampton  Guardian. 


ISAURE  AND  OTHER  PoE.MS~{continued.) 

'  Mr.  Stewart  F-loss  is  a  man  of  voisatilo  talent,  and  his  verses  show  that  he  has 
the  literary  faculty  highly  cultivated.  There  is  something  wikl  and  weird  about 
them.' — 'I'riitlisctker  (New  York). 

'  .V  most  interesting  and  able  Uttle  volume,  largely  touched  with  the  fire  divine." — 
Weekly  Dispatch. 

'  "  Isaurc  and  Other  Poems  "  arc  inspired  by  an  imagination  so  vivid  and 
strenuous,  and  so  unrestrained  by  common  intelligence,  that  they  are  really  not 
safe  to  read  suddenly  in  large  instalments.' — Pall  Mall  Gazette. 

'  Whatever  subject  she  (the  Poet's  Muse)  touclies  upon,  she  usually  expresses 
herself  sweetly  and  gracefully,  sometimes  with  a  fine,  flowing,  forceful  sweep 
of  vigorous  language.' — Perthshire  Constitutional. 

'  5k)me  of  the  passages  are  exceedingly  powerful ;  and,  as  a  whole,  ' '  Isaure ''  must 
be  set  down  as  one  of  the  author's  greatest  poems.' — Dumfries  Standard. 


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LAYS  OF  ROMANCE  AND  CHIVALRY. 

By  W.  STEWART  ROSS  (Saladin). 


'  Some  of  these  effusions  are  of  a  very  remarkable  character,  and  indicate  that 
Mr.  Ross  has  a  genuine  vein  of  poetic  inspiration.' — Daily  Telef^raph. 

'  Mr.  Stewart  Ross  shows  great  power  of  dramatic  expression.  .  .  .  The  work 
will  be  welcomed  by  all  who  can  appreciate  poetic  energy  applied  to  the  interesting 
and  thrilling  incidents  of  the  earlier  and  more  romantic  periods  of  history.' — ■ 
Aberdeen  Journal. 

'  Many  of  the  poems  are  characterized  by  a  spirit  and  ringing  martial  vigour  that 
stirs  the  blood." — Daily  Chi-onicle. 

'  A  book  of  romantic,  historic  verse,  aglow  in  every  page  with  the  energy  of  a 
true  and  high  poetic  genius.' — Glasgow  Weekly  Mail. 

'The  poems  contain  many  fine  thoughts,  expressed  in  powerful  language." — 
Neiocastle  Weekly  Chronicle. 

'  The  author  gives  ample  proof  of  his  varied  talents,  and  has  no  small  share  of 
the  minstrel's  magic  power.' — Aberdeen  Free  Press. 

'  There  is  much  that  is  excellent  in  the  work. . . .  Mr.  Ross  is  apparently  a  scholar, 
and  might  make  a  success  in  some  other  walk  in  literature.' — Liverpool  Daily  Post. 

'  Mr.  Ross  is  a  poet  of  undoubted  power." — Hull  Miscellany. 

'  The  poems  are  characterized  now  by  vigour,  now  by  grace,  and  now  by  pathos." 
— Nottingham  Guardian. 

'  Mr.  .Stewart  Ross  is  not  only  a  poet,  he  is  a  scholar  and  a  thinker.' — South 
London  Press. 

'  The  language  is  chaste,  vigorous,  and  thrilling  ;  the  thoughts  and  figures 
beautiful,  impressive,  and  elevating. '—Z?(7ir?//i  Times. 

'We  have  no  hesitation,  indeed,  in  saying  that  there  is  a  true  poet's  fervour,  a 
genuine  originality  of  manner,  and  much  fineness  and  richness  of  expression  in 
these  productions.' — Newcastle  Daily  Journal. 

'  The  "  Lays  "  are  of  great  poetic  merit." —  Wakefield  Free  Press. 

'  As  to  the  success  with  which  Mr.  .Stewart  Ross  has  hit  on  the  salient  points  of 
the  various  incidents  there  can  be  no  two  opinions  ;  while  there  is  an  easy,  bold 
swing  in  most  of  the  poems  which  will  certainly  help  to  make  them  popular." — 
Brighton  Herald. 


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